


The Memoirs of Mycroft Holmes

by Rector



Series: Cate and Mycroft Stories [11]
Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 64,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A romance. Conspiracy, collusion, home-reconstruction and the getting of wisdom. A Cate and Mycroft story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements:
> 
> This is a non-profit homage based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series Sherlock. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.
> 
> #
> 
> Note:
> 
> This narrative is eleventh in a series. Your enjoyment of this story will likely be enhanced if you read the sequence in chronological order:
> 
> 1\. The Education of Mycroft Holmes
> 
> 2\. Cate and Mycroft: The Wedding
> 
> 3\. Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree
> 
> 4\. Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol
> 
> 5\. Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis
> 
> 6\. The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes
> 
> 7\. Mycroft Holmes: Master of Secrets
> 
> 8\. The Sabbatical of Mycroft Holmes
> 
> 9\. Mycroft Holmes: Tabula Rasa
> 
> 10\. Ne Plus Ultra, Mycroft Holmes

 

 

_The Letter – Teenagers – Cate – Mycroft's Announcement – A Second Announcement – Secrets – The Substitute._

#

#

Seated at his desk in his private office in Whitehall, Mycroft Holmes realised something was seriously wrong within seconds of opening the envelope bearing the portcullis seal of the Cabinet Office. He received many such envelopes each month, often several in a single week, but only three thus far had ever contained anything like the letter he was staring at right now.

He had been nominated – again – for a knighthood.

This was the fourth time in eighteen years he had been the recipient of such a missive, and it troubled him greatly. What made the situation even worse, was that this wasn't even the usual nomination for an Order of the Garter, which would have been bad enough.

 _No,_ _this was_ _far_ _worse_.

Apparently, Her Majesty wished to confer upon him the additional title of Baron of Esgair. Not content with having him knighted, Elizabeth, it seemed, had been convinced to give him an hereditary peerage.

 _Lord Holmes of Esgair_.

He sighed heavily, lifting fingertips to his forehead in vexation. He had made it clear several years ago that he had absolutely no intention of accepting any honours _whatsoever_ while he was operational. The instant heads of quasi-secret government bodies began accepting public honours was the same instant they became less of a professional and more of a public statement and his work could not always be done in the full light of day. Shadows were sometimes the only protection he and his people had and publicity, of any sort, was destructive and counter-productive to the job.

Which made this letter all the more disquieting.

Mycroft knew every single decision-maker involved in the British honours system; this ... his mouth twisted as he looked at the word _Baron_ ... this was not some clerical error or administrative blunder. No, _this_ was very deliberate and had only two possible explanations. Either Her Majesty had lost patience with him and was putting her royal foot down in order to coerce him into accepting an honour, _or_ ... or this was a premeditated and calculated attempt to remove him from his position of authority and control. And since his royal friend of many years would never admit such _lèse_ _majesté_ of losing even a shred of her inestimable patience, then it left only one possible explanation.

Someone was seriously attempting to unseat and most probably eliminate him.

Within six seconds of opening the envelope, he lifted the red phone on his desk and made three brief pre-arranged calls.

###

"No, I still don't see it," Blythe narrowed her eyes as she stared at the magazine photograph of a young and apparently handsome popular musician and singer. "He appears tired, perhaps, but I don't see intoxication," she paused, looking across the room towards her twin. "Of course, it could be the signs of incipient liver disease you're observing."

"What? _Where?_ Show me," Jules caught the magazine as Blythe threw it at his head.

"Look at the colour of the skin just below the eyes," she stretched her head back on her shoulders, yawning. "It might be cosmetics, but few people would consider that colour terribly flattering," she added. "He's not drunk, he's ill."

Holding the photo up to the bright window-light, Jules had to admit that his sister was – once again – correct. He dropped into a chair, thinking.

"Which is why his publicity machine is claiming he's going off to rehab in Medford, just outside of Boston, when in reality, he's going off to the Massachusetts General Hospital Liver Centre for treatment, I'll bet you anything," Jules nodded to himself, pleased with his deduction. "But why not just come out and say he's sick?" he frowned. "It makes no sense to pretend he's drunk, does it?"

"Drunk is sexier in the music world," Blythe linked her fingers together across her chest, the innate wisdom of every one of her fourteen years showing in the cynical cast of her face. "Having a drinking problem is an acceptable celebrity dysfunction; dying of liver failure isn't."

The twins often played this macabre game; out-deducing each other in the lives and times of individuals in the public eye. It was a habit they'd picked up from their uncle, although their mother had trained them to handle the knowledge in ways that were a lot more self-possessed. When they were alone, however, there was no cause for anything but stark honesty. They pretty much knew what the other was thinking, in any case.

And now, both of them sprawling around in the front lounge of the townhouse with the natural ease of any average, non-genius, teenager, they had little to do before dinner. It was too cold to do much outside, in any case, and if they went into the kitchen, their mother would probably leap upon them with small cries of joy and get them to Do Stuff.

"So when are you going to tell Mum and Dad about ... you know ..?"

Blythe knew instantly which particular _you know_ was under discussion. It had been a something of a closed secret between the two of them for several weeks.

"When the moment is right," the fractionally elder of the Holmes twins linked her fingers tighter together. "You know what Dad's going to be like the minute he knows, and then there'll be all sorts of questions and _argh_ ..." she clamped both hands over her face and groaned quietly. "Perhaps I won't bother telling anyone anything until I'm at thirty."

"I think Mum will be okay with it, though Uncle Sherlock ..." Julius was quietly enjoying his sister's minor discomfort; it was rare he got the opportunity.

"Oh, _God_ , don't let him be involved," Blythe cringed inwardly at the idea.

"You know he will be, though," Jules laughed. "And then what will you do?"

She shook her head and grinned horribly. "I will comport myself with grace and moderation, as mother would wish," she quoted one of their mother's favourite catechisms, looking sideways at her brother and making a grotesque face.

"Try it in Latin," he laughed back. "You know old Simonson thinks we've both neglected our Latin; he thinks it's a crime we got away with it for so long as it is."

" _Et ipse cum gratia et modeste geret_ ," Blythe sighed, raising both hands in a theatrical flourish, bowing her head a little as she did.

Both of them had pretty near-perfect Latin and they knew it, though their current teacher was being very begrudging about it. It was one of the problems of being self-aware just how clever they actually were.

Having left the Onslow Gardens school shortly after their eleventh birthdays, the twins – there was never any suggestion of splitting them up – attended several London institutions, albeit briefly, until last year when they ended up, more by chance than planning, at Westminster School in the shadow of the great abbey itself. Though Westminster didn't usually take female pupils younger than sixteen, or any students who made it clear, at their interview, that, in their thoroughly informed opinions, God was on par with the Tooth-fairy, the Holmes siblings were not the sort of challenge that came along every day, and, for better or for worse, the old school accepted them both as day pupils.

Nobody, and especially not the twins themselves, had actually expected them to like the place, with its odd routines and Latin religious services and strange old customs. But they did, even though at first it was more about laughing at the school's idiosyncrasies than anything else. But they had both attended for a year now, longer than they had ever managed to stay anywhere else since Onslow. Despite everything, the arrangement seemed to be working, though some of the Westminster teachers regarded the twin-genius-problem as something above and beyond their calling; being a prodigy seemed to cause more difficulties than it solved as the twins discovered.

Oddly enough, whatever they did, or attempted to do in the cause of charming the peasants, as their uncle scathingly described the process, made very little difference. People seemed to either like them or dislike them on sight, simply because they were supposed to be so smart. Some individuals initially viewed them as performing monkeys. Neither perception was true, of course, but the twins had sought each other's company during this testing time. As infants, they had grown used to speaking with the parents of the other children in the crèche at their mother's university and both had learned to converse on an adult level long before they had moved to the Onslow Gardens academy.

Then there was Westminster; a mass of contradictive elements: wild archaisms on the one hand and futuristic technology on the other. But the school itself was so inimitable and idiosyncratic that they found other ill-fitting students who – inexplicably – suddenly started enjoying their company.

Hence Blythe's … _problem_.

Specifically, a sixteen-year old problem called Landry Banister.

Normally dismissing all members of the male sex – even, occasionally, her immediate family – as deplorable idiots, Blythe had been taken somewhat aback to find that not only was there another male in the school who wasn't an entirely lost cause, but also one who happened to find translating the Dead Sea Scrolls as compelling a hobby as did she.

His ancient Hebrew was as proficient as her Aramaic and after one long afternoon in the Ashburnham House school library, Blythe could not help but find her new friend's intellectual and social skills quite pleasing. Landry was clever and he was not unpleasant. An utter incompetent in many ways of course, but a nice one.

He had dreamy grey eyes and a smile that curved up more on one side of his face than the other. He had eclectic music tastes and loved Rugby but found football dull. He knew how to ride a horse but preferred to walk in the woods near his home. He was good at telling jokes and terrible at playing chess. He wasn't the slightest bit concerned that she was cleverer than he was and Blythe found him quite delightful.

Jules, of course, had been sworn to absolute secrecy on pain of multiple deaths. Blythe knew the second her father discovered she had a … that Landry was her … that she had this _particular_ problem, then it would be all top-secret security checks and weighty discussions, and he'd get all serious and look at her as if she were eight again and still learning how to throw knives like Uncle Sherlock did.

Jules grinned madly as he watched his sister's face mirror her thoughts. Neither of them had had things particularly easy at school, though it wasn't _impossible_ to make friends. On the occasions they met up with these friends, it was usually at their houses rather than bringing them back home in case Dad took too much of an interest. Mum was fine and she usually made sure Dad was out of the way if she knew friends might be coming home with them, but sometimes there was an inevitable meeting in the hallway and the equally inevitable expression of their father's face.

On a philosophical level, Jules also realised that, despite their parents' fairly progressive and liberal attitudes, Blythe would still face a parental inquest about the whole Landry thing, and he thanked the stars the only thing he had to worry about right now was finding shoes that fitted his ever-growing feet.

Laying his head back against the couch cushions, he watched Bly through slitted eyes. Even though she was his sister and therefore a creature often best ignored, he had to admit that she was starting to look quite pretty, as far as he understood the concept of female attraction. Blythe took after their mother on the outside and their father on the inside; all except her eyes. Her eyes were the same dark-blue as Dad's, and she had learned how to use them to the same devastating effect. As her brother, he had been on the receiving end of her glares all his life and, as such, was effectively immune, but he pitied some of their teachers. Jules wondered how Landry Banister had managed to survive this long.

He laughed quietly and she looked across the room, her left eyebrow slightly tweaked.

"Simonson," he grinned, shaking his head. Their Latin teacher really was the biggest pain; his expertise due to thirty years of practice rather than any real feel for the language, which was dead, in any case; probably of mortification because of the way Simonson spoke it. There was definitely something of a hate-hate relationship between he and the twins; irritating the man was almost too easy to be fun.

Jules grinned again. He couldn't wait to see what was going to happen when their father found out Blythe had a boyfriend.

###

Only a few months earlier, Nanny Norah had announced to the family that she was getting too old to keep running up and down the stairs of the townhouse to look after them all and there had been a quiet, though sad acceptance of the inevitable. When Nora finally hung up her pinny and retired to a life by the sea with her sister in Eastbourne, Cate found herself taking on more and more of the domestic tasks. Not that she minded terribly, but time was so precious these days that she begrudged spending it on anything she deemed non-critical. She was still writing, but these days was doing more and more work on the boards of several international charities. It had felt wrong to be so happy in her own life while knowing that there was so much unhappiness in the world beyond her front door. Her inner teacher cringed at the appalling education that far too many children had to endure and her work with Global Educators helped raise significant donations to assist thousands, especially girls, to get an education no matter who they were or what country they were in.

Yet there was so much paperwork to get through; so many committee meetings and public hearings. Then there were the fund-raisers and the political speeches, none of which she imagined she'd be the slightest good at, yet which seemed to welcome her with open arms.

But there just wasn't enough time. She wanted help in the home, someone she could rely on to get the shopping or pick one or other of the twins up from one of their extra-curricular things; the school excursions to the museums and galleries; the visits to the theatre or the scienceworks centre. It was all very well for Mycroft to disappear off into the rarefied haze of his Whitehall offices and leave the household management to her by default, but she had no intention of becoming house-bound.

If nobody else was going to do something about it, then she would.

There was also the matter of the twins' rooms. They had long grown out of their shared nursery, but their current accommodation was not terribly conducive to either comfort or concentration. Presently, they had a small bedroom each and shared the zone in between in what had originally been two guest-rooms knocked together. This space had been gradually shaped into some sort of office-come-study-come-retreat, though they seemed to prefer lolling around in the lounge at the front of the house. Clearly, they both needed a little more privacy and something that was recognisably a place of their own, but also a convenient place to house all their school equipment and the ever-growing library of hard-copy books that both seemed to want despite having access to all manner of eBooks online.

Basting the chicken roasting in the oven besides a huge dish of vegetables and potatoes, Cate resolved to have a family council after dinner where she'd raise these issues and her suggestions for dealing with them. She couldn't imagine anyone would object, although having the rooms redone for both Blythe and Jules would be hellish messy for a few weeks until everything was completed.

Cate sighed. Her calendar was so busy this week, with a book-signing at Foyle's the next day, plus a long committee meeting of Global Educators and a parent-teacher's evening at Winchester before the end of the week. On top of this, there was a pile of dry-cleaning to take out, the dishwasher had suddenly begun to hammer the water pipes when it ran, and she really wanted a little more time to hit the dance studio and maybe, if she could squeeze it in, get a really good massage. Her shoulders had been playing up, recently.

She checked the wall clock; almost six. Mycroft would be home shortly and then she could get the evening discussion started.

" _Young Ones_ ," she shouted. "Come set the table, please."

After several minutes of silence, the sound of two pairs of feet announced the arrival of said young ones.

"Mmm ... _chicken_." Jules sniffed appreciatively. "Good; I'm starving."

"Excellent news," Cate pointed him to a nearby chopping board with a large head of broccoli on it. "Get that in steaming, please," she nodded at the pan of water simmering on the hob. "Your father will be home soon and there's something I want to talk about with everyone as soon as we've had dinner tonight."

Lifting her head up from laying silverware around the dining table in the adjacent room, Blythe looked through the door and met her brother's eyes. Which he rolled.

Family councils usually meant something time-consuming was about to happen.

###

Remembering to collect the rather lavish bouquet of fragrant white flowers he'd ordered earlier, Mycroft checked his Hunter. Almost six. The traffic appeared no worse than usual and he'd be home very shortly, which was good, as there were a number of things he needed to discuss this evening.

Not the least being his plans for the immediate future.

The Jaguar dropped him off as usual and his long legs took the steps two-at-a-time, unlocking the wide front door as he did every night. The aroma of a good dinner greeted him, as did the soft murmur of voices from the rear of the house. Dropping his briefcase in on his office desk, he walked into the kitchen just as Cate uncorked a pinot noir.

" _Darling_ ," handing her the flowers, he caught his wife around the waist, waltzed her half across the kitchen and smiled as she squeaked and laughed. Ignoring the jaded sighs of both offspring, he proceeded to kiss her warmly, pleased, as he always was, that everyone inside his world was safe and well. Despite everything that he knew was likely to happen in the oncoming days, Mycroft found himself in a high good humour.

"Chicken?" he sniffed the air. " _Perfect_. I'm feeling rather peckish."

"You and your son, both," Cate gazed upwards into the insouciantly brilliant face that hadn't changed one jot in all the years she'd known the man, although he wasn't usually this cheerful before dinner. "Do you want to tell me now, or are we going to have the good news later?"

"Hmmm ..." Mycroft pulled her close to his chest, staring down into the utterly unfazed expression of the only woman he would ever love. "There's one or two things I'd like to discuss with everyone after dinner, if that suits," he said, finally looking around and lifting his eyebrows at the twins.

"Mum's already called a family council for tonight, so you'll have to take your turn, Pops," Julius walked over to his parents, handing them both a glass of wine. At a couple of inches under six feet, the boy was already almost as tall as Mycroft and still growing. Lean and lanky as both his father and uncle had been at the same age, Jules' dark curling hair and angular frame marked him as a Holmes man. Hazel eyes and blue ones met calmly and with gentle amusement, as if father and son shared an awareness of what was ahead.

"Dinner in five minutes," Cate turned back to the oven to liberate the chicken. "Help with taking this into the dining room, please."

"I'll carve," Blythe announced, waiting as her mother laid the large bird on a big china platter. "I need to practice my knife-skills," she smiled faintly, carrying the hapless offering to its ultimate doom as Jules hefted a large bowl of roast vegetables and another of roast potatoes. Mycroft stood open-handed, waiting for the steamed greens and the steaming gravy.

"You shouldn't be doing all this as well as the rest of your work," he noted, frowning slightly. "You'll exhaust yourself."

"Hold that thought, my love," Cate followed behind with the wine and their glasses as the family assembled around the table.

"A toast," Mycroft lifted his glass once dinner had been served. "To the unknown," his eyes gleamed as he tasted the crisp wine, his good mood in full swing.

It was a matter of, at most, three seconds, before both twins laid down their silverware in unison and, sitting back in their seats, looked at each other before turning to their father, arms crossed and identical expressions that said they were waiting for the boot to fall.

"I like cold chicken," Blythe was the first to begin as she eyed Mycroft with an intrigued curl of her mouth.

"And I've been a lot hungrier than I am right now," Jules ignored the food on his plate in favour of staring unremittingly at his father.

Replacing his glass, Mycroft's own expression became bland and entirely unrevealing as he looked from one twin to the other. He lifted an eyebrow but remained silent.

"And I didn't just cook a full roast for it to get cold while the three of you play staring games for the next half-hour," Cate gave each member of her family one of her own looks that recommended they all start eating before she gave their dinners to the first homeless people she could find.

A slow smile curving his own mouth, Mycroft blinked and was the first to submit and start eating; savouring each bite of food, pausing with an uplifted angle of gaze that suggested his contemplation was of things far loftier than steamed broccoli.

"And you should stop tantalising your children," Cate smiled as she prodded her husband gently in the ribs where she knew he was occasionally ticklish. "Come on then," she added, sipping her own wine. "Out with it."

"I am permitted no fun," Mycroft sighed heavily, contemplating a piece of carrot with great sadness.

"It's not that you've just solved a particularly difficult problem," Blythe commented, picking up her own knife and fork, "because you do that all the time without half as much smiling involved," she said, attacking a potato.

"Nor has there been anything specifically spectacular on the news, either domestic or foreign," Jules narrowed his eyes as he took a sip of water. "Nor anything to do with either of the Koreas," he said, examining his plate for the most attractive thing to begin eating. "Thus it's unlikely that your news has anything to do with world peace," he leaned forward, challenging. "Or has some small nation just voted you king?"

"I really think we should finish dinner before I open this particular can of worms," Mycroft's nonchalance as he continued eating was a masterly performance in its own right.

"It this something I need be concerned about, darling?" Cate's tone was equally unworried, but there was a faint edge to her question.

Laying down his cutlery with a sharp exhale, the elder Holmes handed them all an exasperated glare. "Can a man have no peace to enjoy his dinner?" he demanded, grumpily.

"You started it," Cate was not fooled for one moment by his practiced huff.

Neither were the twins. This was standard prevarication methodology for any Holmes and they wasted no sympathy.

"Oh, very well," Mycroft lifted his wineglass again and looked into its pale contents with some concentration for a few seconds before he met the combined gaze of his family.

"I am thinking about retiring."

###

"Are you unhappy with me?" Mycroft poured the last of the wine into Cate's glass as she made coffee while the twins cleared up the detritus of dinner.

"Unhappy?" her smile was serene and genuine. "Not in the least, darling," she reached for his hand, his long fingers cool and reassuring in hers. "I'm just finding it hard to believe that you'd be able to give everything up so easily and so ... so _simply_ , as if it were nothing more than switching off a light and closing a door behind you," she paused, resting a palm on his chest. "There's no trouble, is there?" she asked, looking at him thoughtfully. "We've been down this road before, the two of us," she added. "So if there was a problem, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"There's no problem, my love," he slid long arms around her shoulders, bringing her close so he could rest his chin on her head. He sighed; a small frown creased between his eyes for a moment then vanished. "Now what did you want a family council for? Do you have an announcement of some sort?"

Handing him a cup of coffee, Cate took her own and sat in one of the kitchen chairs. " _Twins_ ," she called, waiting until both offspring trooped in and sprawled ungainly half in a chair and half across the table top.

"I had no idea your father was going to have that kind of news tonight," she began, looking first at daughter, then son. "But it's actually a perfect time for me to tell you what I think we need to have happening around her in the near future," she said, a pleased smile on her lips.

"Which is?" Mycroft looked at her slightly sideways, evaluating what his wife's next statement was likely to contain.

"I want to renovate the house," she said, sipping her coffee. "I want to return the guest rooms to their original purpose and redecorate the Master bedroom and bathroom. I think we need new carpeting on the upper floors and I want to do something fairly spectacular with the flooring on the ground level too," she added, a little smile arriving on her face.

"Then where are Jules and I to sleep?" Blythe wasn't overly anxious; she knew her mother wasn't finished.

"I've had several ideas in this area," Cate nodded, mostly to herself. "We can either gut the attics and make a large single suite up there for you both to share, _or_ …"

"Or?" Mycroft lifted his eyebrows wondering if she were going to suggest building an additional floor on the roof. Others were doing it, as London house-prices soared. It wouldn't be cheap, but then this was also an investment for the future. He was inwardly delighted that Cate's creative instinct seemed as active now as it had been when they had first met.

"Or we gut both the attic _and_ the cellar; make two independent suites, and you two can fight over which you want, or alternate, if you prefer," Cate sat back and looked at the contemplative faces around her. "I am working on the premise that you'll both be living here with your father and I for at least another five or six years, so it makes sense to have this upheaval now, before your lives become overly complicated," she paused, about to say more but thinking better of it.

"Cellar!"

"Attic!"

The statements were loud and simultaneous, with Jules pointing up high in the exact moment that Blythe pointed down.

"I shall take that as a vote for separate accommodations, shall I?" Cate laughed as Mycroft's hand found hers and squeezed, lifting it to his lips.

"An excellent idea, my love," he smiled. It would keep Cate enthused and occupied; hopefully _too_ occupied to worry too much about _his_ situation. The same went for his children who were displaying an inconvenient level of perception these days. "Have you drawn up any suggestions as to layout and plan?" he asked, knowing it was probably one of the first things she had done.

"Only as far as the size and approximate shape of the available spaces," she admitted, nodding again. "I'd want to bring in an architect and make this a full family decision," she added.

"Do I get space for a laboratory?" Blythe asked, breathless with anticipation.

"And can I have big windows for painting?" Julius looked from one parent to the other and back. "Please?"

"Perhaps," Cate grinned. "Especially now that I've finally chosen the project manager for the new building works," she said.

"And which firm of architects have you chosen, my dear?" Mycroft was quite content for her to choose whatever she wanted if it made her happy.

"Why _darling_ ," Cate turned to him and smiled hugely. "The venerable firm of Holmes and Holmes, of course," she said. "If you're going to retire, what better thing than to give you a nice big project to handle so you won't become bored?"

Mycroft sensed a great pit yawning wide at his feet.

"I may be too busy to tackle something of that magnitude," he backpedalled rapidly, assuming a significance of expression to waylay any potential commitment. "I expect to have my hands full with a creative endeavour of my own, in fact."

"Such as?" Blythe felt her skin prickle with anticipation. Tonight was turning out to be full of the unexpected.

Hesitating, Mycroft adopted a faintly self-deprecating little smile. "I'm going to write my memoirs," he said, looking from one face to the next.

There was something of a concentrated hush as the notion sank in.

"The scandals?" Cate frowned, remembering several of them.

"Where the bodies are buried?" Blythe's eyes were wide at the thought of it.

"The cock-ups … the miscalculations?" Julius sounded dubious.

Mycroft finished his coffee and leaned back in his chair, a dark smile lending a villainous cast to his face. "Everything," he said. "All of it."

###

It was while their mother was taking a shower that evening, that the twins managed to corner Mycroft in his office as he was seated at his desk.

"We know you're not going to tell Mummy all the details," Blythe's expression made it perfectly clear that while he might be able to fool his wife, he wasn't about to put one over on his children. "And we don't expect you to tell us everything either," she added, though her tone was wistful.

"But we wanted you to know that if you're in trouble and you need our help with anything, then we understand that you mightn't want to involve Mum," Jules felt a little awkward excluding his mother like this, but it was clearly for her own safety and protection. Even at fourteen, he knew it was his job to look after her. Blythe was fully capable of looking after herself, but their mother was a gentle soul who quite definitely merited the care of husband and son.

Partly touched by their obviously genuine concern for him and Cate, and simultaneously amused by the equally genuine ambition to find out everything they possibly could, Mycroft smiled to the precisely correct degree to avoid offending young feelings.

"I assure you that, should the situation require your assistance, I will not hesitate to call upon either or both of you," he replied. "We shall keep this discussion between ourselves, however," he added seriously. "This must be a private matter."

"Agreed," both twins looked solemn.

Blythe leaned forward and put her arms around his neck. "Do be careful, Daddy," she murmured, kissing his cheek. "You know how Mummy worries about you." Mycroft noted his daughter did not say that _she_ worried about him.

A true Holmes.

It was later that night, after the twins had gone to their respective rooms, that Cate turned to him in bed.

"I know you've not told us everything," she said, quietly. "Though I hope you don't expect me to remain on the side-lines as you suffer in silence," she said, leaning over and stroked a rebellious lock of hair back from his face. "Nor do I expect you to tell me every little detail," she added, "but I will not have you going off on one of your mysterious operations without some knowledge of the general ramifications, do you understand?" she added, sliding down beside the warmth of his body.

In the dark of the bedroom, Mycroft smiled, knowing Cate would know he smiled.

"I promise you, my love, I will keep you apprised of everything you need to know throughout the entire affair," he said, rolling onto his side and laying a hand across her waist, pulling her closer. "Your support is too valuable to disregard, though it's going to be hard to keep the twins at bay; they're increasingly insightful, these days."

"You leave them to me," Cate pressed her lips to the skin of his throat. "I've had plenty of Holmes-wrangling practice to know how to deal with the children." Cate knew she was fully capable of looking after herself, but the twins were still young and inexperienced, no matter how perceptive they were becoming. Both Blythe and Jules might consider themselves ready to join the family franchise of conspiracy and mayhem, but they were still essentially innocent adolescents and she had no plans at all for them to lose that innocence to fallout from their father's work-related machinations. "Though if you need my help in anything, you have but to say," she added, sliding her fingers up through his hair as his arm tightened around her.

"Your help has always been important to me," his voice dropped half-an-octave as he brushed the side of her neck with his mouth, caressing the delicate angle of her jaw. "You have no idea how much I would value your co-operation right now."

Cate laughed against the heat of his skin. She could already feel how much he wanted her co-operation.

"You are a very bad man," she whispered, lifting her mouth up to his, welcoming his desire and obvious eagerness.

"I do my best," Mycroft murmured as he wrapped her in a tight embrace, finding her lips and letting the hunger rise between them.

###

The very next evening on the way home from Foyle's as she wriggled the cramp out of her aching hand, Cate was surprised to see the Jaguar parked outside the townhouse. It was unusual for Mycroft to make it home before her and she wondered if it had anything to do with the discussion of the previous evening.

Unlocking the front door, she wandered along the central passage. Mycroft wasn't in his office, nor in either of the lounges. Perhaps he was upstairs.

A small grin curved her mouth at the thought of getting him alone upstairs before the children arrived. It would be just like old times.

There was the noise of clattering pans from the kitchen, and she shrugged. Mycroft must have felt a wave of domesticity and come home early to cook dinner. Cate smiled again. If this was a sign of things to come, she'd remember to make his evenings as pleasant as possible.

"Why _darling_ , how lovely to have you all to myself and alone …" Cate stopped abruptly and her grin vanished.

The man sorting out the cooking utensils in her cupboards was not her husband.

Late-twenties, tallish, mousey-blond hair and, when he looked up at her startled exclamation, Cate saw a diamond nose-stud and a cheeky grin.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?" she demanded, dropping her bags and rising onto her toes, ready for whatever happened next.

"Ah, my _love_ ," Mycroft walked into the room behind her, dropping a light kiss on the side of her head. "Meet our new Nora."


	2. Chapter 2

_Players – Sherlock Suspects – Jack Parrish – The Butler Did It – New Wave, Old School – Confidences._

###

"Absolute nonsense," Sherlock stared briefly out of a window overlooking Baker Street before throwing himself into his usual seat, mobile phone at his ear. "Your father will die in harness," he added. "They'll probably have to pass a new law enabling his desiccated corpse to be disinterred from the deepest vaults of Whitehall. _Retirement?_ Rubbish."

There was a whisper of sound at the other end of the call.

"Nope," Sherlock was adamant. "He's up to something. Either he's blackmailing the government to acquire more funding for his nefarious misdeeds, which is _entirely_ like him, or he's playing some convoluted power-game of chicken, no doubt using the upcoming royal baby scandals as bargaining chips."

A faint squawk had him rolling his eyes.

"Very _well_ ," he sighed. "Nefarious _tactics_ , if you must," he looked skywards and sighed again, the burdens of unclehood heavy upon his shoulders. "And no; not _that_ baby, the other ones. Are you still planning on coming by on Friday afternoon? I will have the samples by then."

Another soft whisper.

"Excellent," Sherlock smiled fleetingly. "Don't forget the plastic sheeting this time."

Murmuring a soft acknowledgement as she ended the call, Blythe turned to her sibling.

"Something's up," she pursed her lips and looked serious. "Even Uncle Sherlock says it's impossible for Dad to think of retiring just like that," she said. "He said Dad was probably using it as a ploy to get his own way in something particularly important."

"I knew it," Jules nodded sagely. "Which is why he asked us to keep this whole thing quiet," he said. "Clearly, there is a delicate balance of things in play here."

"Yes, but _what_ things, and why is Daddy making it personal this time?" Blythe frowned in thought. "Normally when he's playing one of his games, he does it all at a distance, but _this_ time ..." her words tailed off.

Julius scowled, his dark eyebrows achieving a grimace of which his uncle would have been proud. "Then perhaps _this_ time the problem actually does involve him," he spoke thoughtfully. "Maybe this time, the game he's playing isn't about anyone else."

"You think he's in trouble?" Blythe's eyes opened wider as she watched her brother's face. Though Jules was a boy, he did _sometimes_ have reasonable ideas.

"I think that, whatever the problem is, it's having some direct effect on him to the extent that he needs to make someone _think_ he's leaving the game."

"The Game?" Blythe lifted her eyebrows.

"That's what I said," Jules nibbled his bottom lip.

###

"Mycroft's up to his old tricks again," Sherlock crossed his legs and stared hard at the nearest wall, fingers tap-tapping on the chair-arm.

"What now?" John looked over the top of his reading glasses, a book opened in his hands. "Which particular old tricks did you have in mind? There have been quite a number, as I recall."

"He claims to be retiring from the service," Sherlock snorted inelegantly. "In addition to writing his memoirs, of course."

John bent his head as he pulled the small gold spectacles from the bridge of his nose, the light from the window catching the silver hairs at his temples. His expression part-way between a faint smile and puzzlement.

"Your brother," he said. "Retire? As in ... _retire?_ " John's mouth curved upwards. "The empire will crumble," he shook his head, eyebrows high. All movement was arrested as his brain digested the second half of the sentence. The blond man looked across the room, an entirely different expression forming the planes of his face into alert concern.

"Wait ... _memoirs?_ " he asked, a growing look of horror in his eyes. "Mycroft has made it known he intends to write his _memoirs?_ "

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face, his gaze suddenly distant and brooding. "It's unlike someone even as self-interested as my brother to make such an intention public before he was actually on his death-bed," the younger Holmes mused aloud. "Besides, they're not even finished."

"What's not ..." John frowned again, pausing. "Are you telling me that Mycroft has already _written_ his memoirs? That this isn't just some irresponsible threat? That he, your brother, the great hope of the Western world, has actually written his account of everything that's shaped his life, and when I say _his_ life, I really mean the life of nearly all of us on this little island?" John gaped. "Has he suddenly developed a death-wish?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and inhaled deeply.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "That's not Mycroft's style. Whatever else he may be, he's not about to set himself up for a fall, not with Cate and the children, no," he shook his head again. "Though I suspect him of pushing the boundaries of good sense and putting his head far too high above the parapet for safety. Obviously, he wants someone to take a pot-shot at him."

"Mycroft's setting himself up as a target? Why?"

"Excellent question, John," Sherlock nodded now as his thoughts raced off, far and wide, examining potentials, dismissing impossibilities. "The twins have already worked out there's something rotten in Denmark," he halted, taking a shallow breath. "Blythe and Jules are getting themselves involved in my brother's schemes, when they really _really_ shouldn't," he added, reaching for his phone again. "This is a family problem and I think my brother is going to need to consult the services of an expert in this situation," he said, stabbing a fingertip down on the screen of his phone.

"Someone in the police?" John leaned forward. "Are you going to get Greg Lestrade?"

"Not police and not Lestrade," Sherlock grinned alarmingly. " _Me_."

###

Cate sat at the table and sipped her tea, her eyes never once leaving the figure of the young man who, after respectfully requesting permission to continue exploring her kitchen, was now going through every single cupboard and drawer, testing every surface and examining each and every pot, pan and sharp-edged knife.

"This is James ..." Mycroft had introduced the newcomer.

"Jack," the tall blond stepped forward, a pleasant smile on his face. "Jack Parrish," he added, holding out his hand. "I'm a cook."

Still not entirely sure what was going on, Cate shook the hand that didn't look remotely cook-like and turned back to her husband, a single eyebrow asking all manner of questions.

Mycroft smiled, sliding an arm around her shoulders.

"Mr Parrish is too modest," he smiled briefly. "Not only is he a qualified _Cordon Bleu_ chef, but he's also well-versed in many areas of domestic management, and was only too happy to accept my offer of a paid _practicum_ with the family for a little while."

"I'm training to be a Butler," the blond stranger sounded hopeful. "I've already been certified in a pile of stuff and can do the whole chauffeur thing or manage your cellar, or organise a grouse shoot if you fancied one," he suggested optimistically. "Maybe offer some advice on etiquette and protocol?"

"Thank you, Jack," Cate found Mycroft's arm and pulled him away with her. "My husband and I are going to have a little chat about some protocols of our own and then we'll see what happens from there, shall we? Won't be long. Please," Cate waved at all the opened cupboards. "Carry on with the circumnavigation."

Grabbing Mycroft's hand, she pulled him along the passage from the kitchen toward his office at the front of the house. Closing the door behind them, she put her hands on her hips, an expression of some acerbity on her face.

"Explain to me why there's a strange young man making friends with my good china without me knowing anything about it," she demanded, folding her arms and looking more than a little peeved.

"You said you'd do anything to help me," Mycroft sat on the edge of his desk and folded his own arms.

"And having Mr Parrish in our house is going to help you, is it?"

Lifting his eyebrows a fraction, Mycroft allowed a faint smile to curve his lips. "It is," he nodded slowly. "At the very least," he added, "it will give me an ace up my sleeve."

"Seriously?" Cate watched his eyes.

"Seriously, and I'm sorry this is all so precipitous; the opportunity arose and I had to take it."

Feeling a little mollified, Cate let her arms drop to her sides. "Well ... if this is really going to help you with the situation, then I imagine we can manage to cope with a stranger in our midst for a while," she said. "Is he really learning to be a butler? Do you want him to stay? I suppose he could have Norah's old room, if so."

"Darling, would you mind awfully if he stayed with the family for a while? I know his father and it would be so helpful to me," Mycroft leaned forward and pulled her towards him. "And yes; he really is learning how to buttle. I know how you feel about people pursuing a vocation."

"As long as you are comfortable having him around and the children aren't going to be in harm's way," Cate leaned into his solid warmth, knowing that she would probably give in and let her husband do whatever he wanted if it was this important.

"You never fail me," he murmured as he pressed his face into the side of her neck. "Have I told you recently how much I love you?"

Not today," Cate smiled against his chest. "Which is terribly remiss of you."

Pulling her closer, he stared down into her bright brown eyes. "Then I must make it up to you somehow," he said, a deliciously suggestive tone in his voice as his eyes scanned her face. "Perhaps an early dinner at Apsley's and then the theatre?" Mycroft's smile matched hers. "A night at the Langham?" his fingertips stroked the soft skin at the side of her face. "An evening away from the children ... just the two of us ..." his lips brushed her brow as his arms settled firmly around her. "A long bubble-bath where I can scrub your back," he whispered the words into her hair.

"Deal," Cate didn't want to move, didn't want this feeling ever to change. "But not tonight," she sighed, leaning back and becoming practical again. "Tonight I have to get a room ready for our new guest and work out just exactly what everyone expects of this situation," she dropped a quick kiss onto his mouth. "And not tomorrow; we're both expected at the Winchester parents' evening," she paused, smiling. "But Thursday's free, if you're interested?"

"I'll make the arrangements," he pulled her back to him, his mouth caressing hers with a lingering touch. "Keep your diary free for me."

"Always," Cate breathed, closing her eyes.

A loud crash from the kitchen snapped them open again.

"Assuming there are no problems for me to deal with on the home front," she added, sounding philosophical.

"I'll make sure of it," Mycroft kissed her again, briefly but with definite intent, before taking her hand and going to see if he needed to buy his wife some new china.

###

By the time the twins arrived home from school, harmony reigned once more.

Upon realising that she hadn't lost anything valuable or irreplaceable, and that the young man who might or might not end up being a butler, had not, in fact done anything deserving of her wrath, Cate had set him to making dinner as a test of competency. Informing him of the menu she'd planned for that evening, she left young Mr Parrish to it while she went off to see about getting a room organised for him. Mycroft had vanished into his office.

Norah's room had always been on the second floor of the house, a problem for her increasingly aging knees. But the tall blond would have little problem with the two flights of stairs up from the ground floor.

Opening the windows up to freshen the air a little, Cate looked around, but knew there wasn't a great deal that needed doing; she'd emptied and cleaned the place once Nora had left for her sister's house. Though it wasn't a huge room, neither was it tiny, and was right next door to the general bathroom on this floor.

Pulling out some dark green bed-linens, Cate fluffed up the duvet and added a couple of extra pillows. The walk-in-wardrobe was clean and empty, and there was nothing in any of the drawers of the tallboy or the dresser. Everything was pristine and ready for its temporary occupant.

Now to see if Mycroft's unexpected cuckoo was actually able to demonstrate the culinary skills he claimed. She had planned steak and mashed potatoes with baby carrots for dinner, and something vaguely puddingish involving pears and custard. Not exactly _haute cuisine_ , but this was the middle of the week and time, as ever, was short. If Mr Parrish didn't make too much of a dog's breakfast out of this, she might let him try something Italian tomorrow. Pasta and sauce was fairly easy; how much damage could anyone do?

The first thing that alerted Cate to the fact that all might not be as she expected was the smell. Coming down to stand at the foot of the stairs, the delicate aroma of red wine and ginger and the warm spice of fresh crushed pepper wafted along from the direction of the kitchen. It smelled very good, but nothing like the meal she had planned. She hurried along the passageway into the bright warmth that was the heart of the house.

With a shiny pair of red headphones over his ears, Jack Parrish, wrapped from chin to knees in a long white chef's apron, was bouncing on his toes to the music as he prepared the carrots. His back was to the door, so Cate was unobserved. She quickly took in the marinating steaks, the soaking potatoes and the peeled pears adjacent to a bowl of thick fragrant batter. The small oven was pre-heating and there was a stack of plates and silverware ready for formal laying on the dining room table. A bottle of decent red had been opened, its rich tang added to the overall sense of a very reasonable dinner-in-the-making.

Thinking she could at least lay the table, Cate began to gather up the plates in one hand, reaching out for the silverware in the other.

"Oh, no no _no_ ," Jack Parrish turned at the sound of clinking china, one hand pulling the headphones from his ears, the other stretched out towards her, gesturing for her to put the plates down. "This is what _I'm_ here to do for you, Mrs Holmes," he smiled lopsidedly. "There is nothing for you to do now except relax; Mr Holmes told me how busy you are all the time, so I really think you should put your feet up with a cocktail before dinner, and let me get on with all this stuff," he waved a hand at the preparations behind him. "Everything's under control, though I hope you don't mind that I've made a couple of tiny alterations to your menu."

Cate wasn't entirely sure which bit of that shocked her the most. _Put her feet up? With a cocktail? Everything was under control and she didn't have to do anything at all?_

"Are you sure my husband didn't abduct you from some very nice hotel and drag you here under false pretences?" She wasn't sure what to do. Should she leave the boy to handle everything, or should she at least make some effort to help out? Cate felt a real desire to do all the things he'd suggested, immediately followed by a wave of guilt.

"Why don't you go and read the evening paper in the lounge and I'll bring you something to tempt your palate before dinner?" the tall blond smiled. "There really is nothing for you to do in here."

The tone in his voice convinced her.

 _Very well_.

"Then I'd love a cocktail," she smiled. "Something with gin would be lovely," Cate pointed. "The main drinks cabinet is in the dining room, although the extra bottles of spirits are ..."

"...in the long cupboard at the back and to the left, in the pantry," he finished for her, smiling. "It's the first thing we're told to do when we go to a new residence," the young man smiled again. "Find out where everything is."

"If you're absolutely sure I can't do anything to help ..?" Cate made one last effort to offer assistance.

"I'm absolutely sure you should go and read the paper and I'll bring you something to assist with your unwinding," he held up a hand. "No disagreement until after you've had dinner and decide if you want me to stay or not."

_Fair enough._

"Then I'll just be through here," Cate pointed to the doorway of the rear lounge.

"Excellent. And would Mr Holmes enjoy an _aperitif_ before dinner?"

"Um ... Mycroft usually has a scotch when he feels like it," Cate was already half-way through the door. "He's in his office though, so I don't know.

"Leave everything to me, Madam," there was an air of competency in the assurance. "I shall see to all the details."

 _Well._ In _that_ case ...

Leaving the young man to it and heading into the lounge, Cate found herself in the unusual situation of having a good half-hour before the twins arrived home, and nothing to do. Picking up the evening paper, Cate found her favourite leather couch, lifted her feet up onto a convenient ottoman and sighed with pleasure as she turned to the arts pages.

Almost before she'd had a chance to get beyond the first couple of articles, the trainee butler arrived at her side bearing ... yes ... a silver salver. Where on earth had he found a silver drinks tray? He offered her the nearest of two glasses, this one tall and clear and scented with gin and lime.

"Your Gin Ricky, Madam," he announced, holding it closer so Cate could lift it easily from the tray.

The second glass was properly cocktail-shaped and the fragrance was definitely that of whisky.

"Is that a Manhattan?" Cate asked. "He likes those sometimes."

"Then hopefully, he shall like this one now," the blond smiled cheerfully, the diamond stud in his nose glinting in the light of the lamp beside her. "When are the children expected home from school?" he asked. "If I am able to serve dinner at six-thirty, would that be agreeable with you, Madam?"

"They usually get here around half-past five or so, so half-past six would be ideal," Cate sipped her drink. It was perfect. She smiled. "But please don't call me 'madam'; I'm really not the madamy type."

"You prefer Mrs Holmes? Or some other title?" he sounded uncertain.

"I don't need a title; my name is perfectly fine, you know," she offered laughingly as she sipped her cocktail again. "We're not exactly traditional around here. Unless you want us to call you Mr Parrish?"

Standing upright, the young man looked uncomfortable. "Oh, _please_ ," he looked awkward. "I really would prefer everyone to call me Jack, if that's okay, but they tell us at butler school never to be too informal with our employers," he said dubiously. "In case it causes offence."

"I won't be the least offended if you call me by my given name," she smiled, waving her drink. She lifted her hand. "Hi, I'm Cate," she said, waiting.

Sighing, the newcomer shook her hand for the second time that afternoon. "And I'm Jack," he looked vaguely pleased.

"Good. Now Jack, please go and see if my husband would like to try that delicious-looking cocktail."

"Yes, Mada ... Mrs Holm ... _Cate_ ," he nodded, shrugged in amusement, and was gone.

She grinned to herself and shook her head. Poor man.

The twins were going to eat him alive.

###

In his office, Mycroft had just ended a phone conversation with his brother. It had not been an easy conversation to have, mainly because Sherlock refused to believe a single thing that was said.

"You are most certainly not retiring and the idea of you publishing your ... _memoirs_ ... is beyond preposterous. This is clearly some stratagem designed to smoke out those whom you suspect of doing whatever it is you refuse to discuss. It is equally obvious you require professional assistance in identifying and neutralising this problem. Loath though I am to become embroiled in the reptilian nature of your byzantine intrigues, I feel obligated, in the name of family, to render my assistance."

"The less anyone beyond myself knows of this matter, the safer we all shall be, Sherlock," Mycroft was not so easily swayed by his sibling's rhetoric. "I am fully cognisant that you do not offer your help lightly or often, but I really am in no need of your specific services," he said. "I have the situation under control."

"So under control that not even your own children believe you?" Sherlock was not about to hold back if the wellbeing of his niece and nephew might be in the balance. "They are afraid for you, Mycroft; I call that irresponsible."

"And I call it none of your business," Mycroft felt his irritation rise. The years had not mellowed his brother, though they had taught him the value of kinship. Sherlock, knowing he was not one of nature's family men, had taken to Blythe and Jules since they were infants. He treated them as if they were his own, and would cheerfully risk his all for their protection.

Mycroft knew this was the reason behind his brother's offer. Not the wellbeing of himself _per se_ , but for the protection of those Sherlock deemed irreplaceable in this world. The knowledge of this tempered his response.

"Sherlock, there really is no need for you to concern yourself with the welfare of the twins. I promise you that I have taken every precaution to ensure the absolute safety of all involved."

There was a stony and obstinate silence at the other end of the conversation

Mycroft sighed. He rubbed a hand across his face. It was ever thus with his brother.

" _But_ ," he said, eventually. "I concede that it would not hurt to have your opinion on my basic strategy in this instance, if you would be interested in offering such an opinion, of course."

"John and I will be there at eight," Sherlock was magnanimous in victory. "It would be helpful to arrange for the rest of your family to be absent so that they are not further concerned by the fact of our presence."

"Ah," Mycroft paused. "That might not be achievable this evening. We have a ... guest staying with us temporarily."

" _Guest?_ "

"Possibly a guest, yes," Mycroft was not about to be further hounded by his younger brother. "And quite possibly beyond the realms of this discussion," he added, happily. "I agree to review my current situation and my plans for its successful resolution, but nothing more, at the present time."

"I cannot work without the requisite data," Sherlock sounded fractionally huffy.

"It is _your_ decision to involve yourself in this issue, dear my brother," Mycroft was practically purring now. "I will not be coerced into providing irrelevant information. Come or not come, the choice is yours," he added. "Goodbye, Sherlock. My regards to John."

He had barely replaced the Nokia in his jacket pocket when a soft knock at the office door made him lift his eyebrows. Of the three people currently in this house, only one would knock.

"Yes, Jack?"

Opening the door just enough to enter with a silver tray balanced on his fingertips, the young man walked over, offering the dark cocktail.

"Mada ... Mrs Holm ... _Cate_ said you might like a cocktail before dinner, Mr Holmes," he held the tray steady.

Observing the open gaze, steady hand and hopeful tone, Mycroft was assured there was nothing amiss here. His lifted the glass and took a sip.

"Very nice Jack, but slightly less vermouth next time, please," he smiled. "And lemon rather than the cherry."

"Of course, sir," the tall blond nodded, filing the information away for future use. "Will that be all you require before dinner is served at six-thirty?"

"That will be all, thank you," Mycroft kept his inner smile completely unseen until the boy had left the room. Such propriety for one so young. He allowed his mouth to curve up as he tasted the drink again. It really was rather good.

Heading back into the kitchen, Jack smiled, pleased at his success in getting to know his new, albeit temporary, employers. She was new wave and he was old school. Cate and _Sir_.

With luck, they might even let him wear his uniform.

###

"What's in this sauce?" Jules looked deeply thoughtful as he worked out the specific ingredients and ratios. "It tastes fantastic, but I can only make out garlic and pepper and red wine," he said, turning his head in the direction of the kitchen. "Jack's a great cook, Mum. You should let him do all the cooking from now on."

Though Cate was delighted the meal was far better than she'd hoped, the lack of culinary loyalty on the part of her children stung a little.

"Jack is only going to be with us for a short while," she said, sampling the accompanying red wine the trainee butler had matched to their classic _Steak au Poivre_. The meat, she acknowledged, was perfectly done and delicious. The sauce was light and piquant.

Blythe loved the authentic twice-cooked _pomme-frits_ and even managed to persuade her father to let her try some of the wine which, she found, was not to her taste; the flavour far too dry and bitter for her young palate.

"Most pleasant," Mycroft dabbed his mouth with a corner of his linen napkin, his eyes innocent but plainly amused as they met Cate's across the table. "A definite score on the plus side there, I think."

"Apparently, there's pudding to follow," Cate tweaked her eyebrows teasingly as she sipped the wine again. "Going by the quality of the first course, I bet it's something outrageous and decadent."

Looking immediately pained, Mycroft sat upright in his chair. He had expected to deny himself pears and custard.

"I smell ginger and pears and ... some kind of liquor," Blythe closed her eyes and sniffed.

"Brandy syrup over a sticky pear and ginger pudding," her father sighed folding his napkin to one side of his plate in preparation of a serious show of stoicism and intestinal fortitude.

"You can't refuse to try the boy's first dessert," Cate leaned over the table as she spoke in a low voice. "He'll think you don't approve and he's trying so very hard to get everything right tonight."

"I have no desire to hurt anyone's feelings," Mycroft looked mildly slighted. "But you know how easy it is to let the weight creep up."

"Then you should join me in the gym tomorrow morning," Cate suggested tartly. Her husband was almost as svelte and elegant as he had been when they first met. His measurements barely wavered no matter what he ate or drank; all the nervous energy he used in his thinking kept him lithe and absurdly attractive.

"Well, if you think it best ..."

"I think you should give Jack's effort a fair trial, especially as you were the one who brought him here."

"If you don't want it Dad, then I'll make sure none of it goes to waste," Jules finished the last of his chips and smiled, helpfully.

Cate had no idea where her son put all the food he ate. If anything, he seemed to be getting skinnier and taller. It was clearly something unnatural to do with the Holmes side of the family. Thank god Blythe was more like her, though she seemed to have inherited Mycroft's mind and thought-processes. But at least both children had healthy appetites and energy to burn.

Both of them had also inherited the Holmes curiosity.

Upon arriving home that evening, it had proven impossible to drag either of them out of the kitchen as Jack completed the last of the dinner preparations beneath the acute scrutiny of two scalpel-sharp sets of eyes.

Undeterred, the young man in the long apron ignored them both utterly as he focused on his work, unwittingly making two friends for life. It was so rare that the twins were ever ignored like ordinary people that they savoured the moment in their hearts. If felt good to be treated like everybody else. And as if that wasn't enough, Jack could _really_ cook, too.

Jules wanted to know everything about being a butler.

Blythe wanted to know why her father had brought a newcomer into this particular household at this particular time. He never did anything without a precise reason, so while it was a plausible excuse to say that Jack Parrish was here to help out their mother while she was so busy, Blythe knew there had to be more to it than that.

And she meant to find out exactly what it was.

"Sherlock and John will be here around eight, but won't be staying long. We'll be in my office, darling," Mycroft rose from the table after dessert had been served, investigated and eaten with relish by all.

Cate sighed. Her pears and custard were never going to cut it in the future.

"But it's been a while since we've had them both over," she protested. "At least we can all have coffee together?"

"Not tonight, my love," Mycroft kissed her cheek, quite certain he did not want any excuse for Sherlock to meet Jack Parrish just yet. "We shall be rather busy and I think my brother might be in one of his moods; you know what Sherlock's like once he has the bit between his teeth. I shall invite them for dinner an evening next week," he said. "Would that suit?"

Reading between the lines for Cate was fairly simple after so many years of practice. Tonight's discussion was obviously connected to his recent announcements, not that she really believed either of them to be true. Mycroft was far too young to retire; he'd be insane with boredom within a month. Nor did she credit the notion of his memoirs being a likely rationale. There was something very odd going on, but he was not yet ready to bring her fully into his confidence, which usually meant that not all the pieces of his scheme were quite in place. Once they were, and once he'd assured himself of eventual success, he'd relax and then she'd know. But it never hurt to let _him_ know that _she_ knew he was playing at something

"I can't help if you keep me in the dark, darling," she murmured, resting a hand on his arm.

Mycroft smiled. "Sherlock said the same thing earlier, but I promise," he squeezed her shoulder. "There is nothing for you to worry about."

Giving him a look that said she'd heard that before, Cate turned and walked back towards the kitchen to tell Jack there were fresh towels in his bathroom, but to help himself from the linen-cupboard if he wanted more. Standing in the doorway, she was privy to part of a conversation, which she felt was better left undisturbed. She tiptoed away.

"So, you're both fourteen," Jack was back in his long apron, hand-drying wine glasses. The twins sat at the table watching him work; they hadn't been so entranced by anything since their uncle had managed to set fire to a rug in the front lounge as he was demonstrating the power of his magnifying glass when they were nine. Mummy wasn't half so interesting to watch. They nodded in unison.

"And have you decided what you want to do when you leave schoo ... university?" the tall blond turned his attention to another glass, holding it up to the light, checking for any blemishes.

"I think I might want to be a painter or a photographer," Jules rested his chin in his hands, observing how Jack polished every part of the glass twice before putting it down on the table.

"An artist? That's' really ..."

"Or a detective like my uncle, or a zoo vet, or a Cosmologist, or an ambassador ..."

"An ambassador? That's ..."

"But I think I'd really like to fly fighter jets, too," Julius looked entirely serious. "It depends on my mood at the time," he shrugged, smiling.

Lifting both eyebrows high, the newcomer looked at Blythe. "And I suppose you're going to want to be a space scientist too? Or maybe a musician? You have musician's fingers."

Not expecting any kind of comment like this, Blythe immediately examined her hands. They were shaped like her mother's, but long-fingered, like her father. She smiled, not having considered the option before. Perhaps she might take up an instrument one day.

"I can't make up my mind what to be, actually," she said, reflectively.

"Between being a superstar musician or a film actor, I bet," Jack opened his eyes wide, grinning.

"No. Between being Prime Minister or Head of MI6, actually," Blythe linked her long fingers together and looked completely at ease with her choices. "Both have their attractions, you see."

"Indeed I do see," Jack stopped polishing the glass in his hands and looked more carefully at the two young people sitting at the big wooden table and watching him with such concentration. "And I bet you could, too," his smile grew wider, but no less genuine.

Blythe couldn't help it. She liked him. She smiled back.

"Are you really a butler?" she asked, watching him replace the crystal glasses into the glass cabinet.

"I'm really trying to be one," Jack smiled again, nodding. "But there's a lot to it that I didn't think of when I started learning."

"Like what?" Jules was still fascinated. Jack was nothing like any of the butlers one saw on the BBC. Or even like those he'd met in various houses. Not one of those had had a diamond nose-stud, for a start.

"Well," Jack pulled out a chair and slid into it, his face animated. "There's all the usual stuff, like learning how to address different people in society, for instance. The widow of the Duke of Mayfair would be ..."

"The Dowager Duchess of Mayfair," the twins chorused.

"Okay, but if a Privy Counsellor Reggie Smith came for dinner, they'd be the ..."

"The Right Honourable Reginald Smith!" Jules laughed.

"What about the titles borne by the children of peers who have disclaimed their peerage?" Blythe asked archly.

"Hmm ... tricky, that," Jack screwed one eye closed in deep thought. "Titles will be given in courtesy as if the title had not been disclaimed," he said. "Next?"

"What colour waistcoats to wear with morning dress in the presence of the Queen?" Jules leaned back in his chair.

"Gentlemen would naturally be dressed in either buff, grey or duck-egg blue waistcoats, above grey or grey-and-black striped trousers," Jack looked superior and knowledgeable. "One cannot have one's gentleman inappropriately adorned for Royal Ascot."

"Have you met the Queen?" Jules leaned his elbows on the table. "We have. Several times."

"You've met _the Queen_?" Jack held his breath. To be a butler at one of the royal residences was some far-distant fantasy. "Oh, _wow_. Tell me _everything_."

"Only if we know you can keep a confidence," Jules drew in a deep breath, sounding both profound and a little pretentious. "She tells us things, you know."

"Elizabeth the Second, Queen of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of Her Other Realms and Territories, Queen, Head of the Commonwealth and Defender of the Faith, _tells_ you things?" Jack laid one hand over his eyes, waving the other in the air. " _Water_ ," he instructed.

"Are you all right?" Jules sounded concerned as he fetched a glass.

"What do you think?" Jack took a swig of the cold water, and leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. "I can keep any confidence for however long for whoever asks me," he sipped from the glass.

"Whomsoever," Blythe corrected.

"Yeah, whatever," Jack rested on his folded arms. "So, either of you got a secret you need keeping?"

"Not me," Jules sighed. "Nothing exciting happens to me ..." he looked slyly across at his sister. "But Blythe does," he said, a faintly evil undertone to his words.

"Oh _yes?_ " Jack turned towards the daughter of the house. "Anything I can do to assist with this ... secret?" he said, a smile curving his mouth. "Would it happen to be a confidence involving a young man of the opposite sex, by any chance?"

"Silly," Blythe scorned. "All young men would be of the opposite sex."

"You know very well what I mean," Jack lidded his eyes and sounded knowing. "You got a young man on the QT?"

"Blythe's got a _boyfriend_ ," Despite being a certified genius, Jules was still only fourteen and this _was_ his sister. He covered his eyes with both hands, a huge grin on his face. "Dad's going to go spare."

" _Jules_ ," Blythe blushed to the roots of her hair. "It's nothing to do with you if I have a boyfriend or not."

"Boyfriend?" Sherlock stood in the doorway.

" _Boyfriend?_ " Mycroft was right beside him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Birds and Bees – The Trouble with High Treason – O, To Be a British Butler – Uncle Sherlock is An Idiot – Saint Cate – Forbidden._

###

Mycroft felt ice in his veins.

Blythe was fourteen; barely adolescent, _a mere child._ How could she possibly be ready to enter the adult world of relationships and intimacy? His daughter was an innocent, entirely unprepared for this! How could he protect her when she allowed an outsider to be so close? How could she bring another man into her life, someone who would change her way of seeing things, change the way she behaved; _someone who was not_ _him_.

In the same instant, he realised Blythe was _fourteen_ , already far in advance of her years in many ways, and with her mother's clear awareness of the world as well as his own critical evaluation of it. She was closer to being an adult than an infant, and it was time she sought new experiences, new adventures, new ... _friends_. His child was no longer a child. Mycroft felt his heart pound in his chest, though whether it was from grief or from joy, he had no clue.

Torn between multiple conflicting feelings and further turmoiled by the fact he was actually _experiencing_ such feelings; Mycroft stared down at Blythe's flushed and startled face. Pre-empting the barrage of questions he could sense about to emerge from Sherlock's mouth, he smiled gently.

"I believe we should have a little chat about such a momentous event, don't you?" he said carefully, realising now he was caught in the cleft-stick of two critical moments. He very much wanted to speak to his daughter about this unexpected revelation; it seemed entirely too coincidental for a new _friend_ to enter her life just as he was being placed in such a dangerously pressured situation himself.

But if it did, he would rather not have Sherlock involved in such a conversation, which meant leaving his brother _here_ , in the kitchen with Jules and Jack Parrish, a situation he would vastly prefer not take place under the current conditions.

"Later, perhaps?" he smiled again, steering Sherlock's momentarily resistant elbow back down the passage towards his office where John was still waiting.

Cate was at the foot of the stairs with some old towels she was about to put in the rag box. She smiled when she saw her brother-in-law; still as tall and sweeping as he ever was, though there were one or two paler hairs now among the dark curling mass.

"Your daughter needs to speak to you," he said, shooting an angry look at Mycroft even as he strode into the office and the door closed abruptly behind the two of them.

 _Blythe?_ What was the matter that Sherlock considered so important it was necessary to tell her?

"What's the matter, darling?" Cate walked into the kitchen, dumping the old towels on a chair. "Your uncle said we needed to speak. What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Jules groaned loudly, dropping his head heavily onto his arms as they rested on the table.

"I'll just take my gear up to my room," Jack Parrish smiled discreetly as he left, tapping Jules on the shoulder as he did.

"And I'm going to have a look at some homework or something," Julius was up on his feet and on Jack's heels, leaving the two women of the house with some privacy.

Something was clearly amiss. Cate looked squarely into her daughter's eyes. "Tell me," she said, softly. "Just tell me; you know I won't be angry, whatever it is."

"There's no reason for everyone to get all worked up about it," Blythe heaved a huge sigh and rolled her eyes. "It's not as if I've done anything wrong."

"Then what is it?" Cate was still watching her daughter's face. Despite Blythe's intellectual heritage, she was still a young girl. Cate smiled suddenly, reminded of the time when she was fourteen and once thrown out of a museum for being unable to resist stroking all the beautifully curved stone carvings.

Seeing her mother smile unexpectedly, Blythe sighed again and relaxed. "I think I have a boyfriend," she said. "Only I'm not sure because I haven't really had one before; boys at school who also happen to be my friends aren't really the same, are they?"

"No, not really," Cate smiled again as she sat down opposite her daughter. She had been expecting an announcement of this kind since the twins had entered the steamy jungles of puberty. "Is he very nice? Do I know him?"

"He's very nice," Blythe grinned shyly. "He's sixteen and he's at school and his name is Landry and he's really good at ancient Hebrew."

 _The things that caught the heart of a Holmes_ , Cate felt warm as she watched her teenage daughter turn into a young woman right in front of her eyes.

"And how does he feel about you?" Cate was quite comfortable with Blythe's ability to handle almost any situation requiring logical problem-solving, but this wasn't quite like that. And one of the things all the Holmes' seemed to have in common was an impressive ability to misconstrue other peoples' feelings. "Are you his first girlfriend?"

Blythe regarded her mother with deep patience realising that this was one of those parent-child rites-of-passage, things. "We haven't really talked about that kind of stuff yet," she said, calmly. "So far, it's been mostly the things we like and the things we don't like," she smiled again. "He's quite clever, for a boy," she added. "He rides horses and his family have a big house with stables near Pulborough. His mother trains racehorses."

"And what does his father do, do you know?"

"Something in the Government like Daddy," Blythe shrugged one shoulder. "His father isn't often around."

 _Brain of a computer, heart as soft as marshmallow. Just like Mycroft_. Cate leaned across the table and caught her child's fingers. "And do you like him very much?"

Blythe looked down at the tabletop and grinned again. Lifting her eyes to her mother, she nodded, making a face. "Is Daddy going to make a fuss?"

"Daddy will only want to know that the two of you aren't rushing into a relationship too quickly," Cate hesitated. "Do I need to give you the mother-daughter talk or are you way ahead of me?"

"Oh _God_ , Mum," Blythe covered her face with both hands in mortification. "I can't believe you'd be so pedestrian as to offer to give me _the talk_."

"Pedestrian I may be, but I'm your mother and it behoves me to make sure you have all the gory details burned into your brain like glowing cinders," she laughed, taking hold of Blythe's hand again. "Once upon a time, there were two little birds, who loved each other very very much, and one day ..."

Blythe buried her head in her free arm and groaned pitifully.

###

Sherlock sat stiffly in one of the comfortable chairs in Mycroft's office and stared at the ceiling. Mycroft ignored the unspoken criticism and turned instead to John who had, over the years, become a key stabilising factor in the life of the Holmes family.

"Good of you to come over at such short notice," Mycroft smiled briefly at the blond-haired man. "I've been offered the Barony of Esgair," he announced without preamble. "Not even the usual knighthood, this time," he inhaled deeply. "You see my problem."

John was struggling hard enough to come to terms with the fact that the elder Holmes was considered suitable material for a lordship to hear the note of irritation in Mycroft's words.

Despite himself, Sherlock couldn't help but hear, evaluate and analyse the entire statement and he turned his head, a look of malicious fascination on his features.

"Baron of Esgair?" he laughed cynically. "Someone up there really doesn't like you."

"What's the matter with being Baron of Esgair?" John was bewildered. "Isn't it a good thing to be?"

"The Barony of Esgair encompasses some of Wales' foremost farming and dairy lands," Mycroft linked his fingers across his stomach, a sour twist to his mouth. "The extensive physical property is not only celebrated as an area of great natural beauty, but it is highly productive both above and below ground. The revenue from mineral extraction alone runs into the millions, and though it reverted to the Crown several years ago when the nineteenth Baron died _sans_ legitimate issue, it was assumed to be earmarked for one of the great scions of the aristocracy," he paused, frustration in his eyes.

"And yet, it comes to you," Sherlock stopped sulking in favour of taunting his brother who was clearly discomforted.

"And yet, it comes to me," Mycroft scowled even more.

"But I still don't see the problem," John looked from one Holmes to the other, at a loss to see the difficulty. "You've been offered a fantastic peerage in Wales in recognition of all the times you've saved the world; what's wrong with that? What does Cate say about it all?"

Mycroft looked horrified. "You cannot imagine for one second I'd inflict the knowledge of something like this on my family?" he looked faintly ill. "Despite her admiration of opera and vintage champagne, I can assure you that Cate is a dyed-in-the-wool socialist at heart; anything that smacked of an hereditary peerage would have her running for the hills," groaning beneath his breath, he rubbed an eyebrow. "The eventual knighthood will be bad enough," he muttered, closing his eyes.

Sherlock exhaled slowly, looking at his best friend and colleague. "Someone is going to extraordinary lengths in an attempt to dislodge my brother from the centre of his incomprehensibly labyrinthine web in Whitehall," he said. "Only the monarch can award hereditary-peerages, therefore the Queen has somehow been convinced by the Honours committee that Mycroft, a complete unknown within all but the highest government circles and utterly unheard of without, should be given one of the greatest and most lucrative awards available in Britain today," he paused, shaking his head. "This is not even the natural reward of a British hero," Sherlock furrowed his brow and folded his arms. "Other than a very few individuals, _nobody_ is aware of the work Mycroft does or has done for many years, therefore this is an _unnatural_ reward; something so extraordinary as to be unique in the annals of the system."

"Which can mean only one thing," Mycroft's sigh echoed his brother's. "I am wanted out of the way and the easiest route to achieve this is assumed to be through my natural desire for wealth and status."

"Thus we may deduce the key stakeholder in this little exercise knows _of_ you, but does not _know_ you _or_ Cate, personally or intimately," Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose. "Clearly someone senior in government ranks, possibly even someone with whom you have worked in the last decade or so, either for or against," Sherlock was musing aloud. "Probably against," he smiled fleetingly.

"That description encompasses a significant number of individuals," Mycroft pursed his lips and looked towards the ceiling. "The orchestration of such an event would require someone to be on the inside of several key committees," he brought his gaze back down to earth. "I doubt it would be too hard to locate any common denominators."

"Though if our man - could be a woman, but based on the ongoing discriminatory practices of senior government recruitment, probably a man – is clever enough to weave this particular cloth, he would certainly be clever enough to have someone else do it on his behalf," Sherlock was now fully into analysis-mode, his face taking on a pointed expression, as if he were a hound on the trail of a fox. "Is it possible to back-track royal _communiqu_ _é_ _s_?" he asked, idly studying a thumbnail.

"You mean to gain access to the privileged and highly confidential private correspondence of both Her Majesty and her Privy Council?" Mycroft's eyebrows lifted slightly.

"That doesn't sound like a terribly sensible idea," John looked between the brothers. "The word _treasonous_ seems to be coming at me from somewhere when I hear things like that," he folded his arms and looked vaguely puritanical.

"Don't be so squeamish, John," Sherlock smiled. "They stopped chopping people's heads off for high treason in seventeen-forty-seven," he turned to his sibling. "And Mycroft could probably get us out of trouble, couldn't you?"

"Hang on," John sensed a worrying subtext to the conversation. "What trouble?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers again and looked back at Mycroft.

And then at John.

Then he grinned.

###

Jules leaned against the frame of the door, watching as Jack Parrish unpacked his belongings, putting them away into a couple of drawers. A rather splendid jet-black suit on a hanger was carefully unwrapped, ready to be hung with great care, in the walk-in-wardrobe.

"You brought a dinner suit?" Julius already had one of his own and recognised the similarities.

"Not a dinner suit," Jack grinned. "My uniform."

"What kind of uniform is ... _oh_ , I see," Jules nodded. "I didn't know they still had those outside of BBC historical dramas anymore. Is it really a proper butler's uniform?"

"Cost me a mint, but it's beautiful," Jack stroked the fine black livery with loving fingers. "Now I just need to be someplace where I'm allowed to wear it," he smiled brightly. "My plan is to get a job at one of the big stately houses; either old or new money, I don't mind, but somewhere that really values the old-fashioned skills of a British butler."

"You actually want to wear a formal butler's uniform?" Jules wrinkled his forehead. "Why?"

Digging around inside his suitcase to pull out a small laptop, Jack switched it on, waiting until it booted up. On the desktop were a series of video icons. He clicked one and handed the computer to the boy. "Watch and learn," he said, continuing to unpack.

The video was an extract from an old British film. In black-and-white, the grainy images featured a man dressed as a butler taking charge of a grand household, his effortless command and charm a thing of great elegance and charisma. Jules closed the image; there were a dozen or more similar icons on the computer's desktop. "May I?" he asked, pointing at the next one.

"Of course," Jack smiled as he shook out a pair of tailored trousers prior to hanging them. "Have a look at them all, if you like."

Though there were a good number of the clips, they were short, a few minutes each, and the young Holmes ran through the lot before the new guest had finished putting everything away. Each one of them had shown the character of an archetypal British _Majordomo_ in full flight. Rousing. _Heroic_.

"So you really want to do the whole butler thing, then?" Jules asked, closing the final clip. "Gosford Park and Downton Abbey eat your heart out?"

"Look, I know it sounds like a crazy thing, especially to someone like you who's got the brains and ability to do whatever you want to do, but yeah," Jack screwed one eye closed and grinned. "I really do."

"At some big, country estate with lots of house parties and a proper wine-cellar and grounds to maintain, and Lord-of-the-Manor stuff happening?"

Jack closed his eyes, a beatific grin curving his lips. " _Perfect_ ," he sighed. "Just perfect."

"Well, I think you're quite mad," Jules offered cheerfully. "But then people say that to me when I tell them I'd like to fly fighter jets, or when Bly announces she wants to run the country," he shrugged like only a fourteen-year-old could.

"Do you really want to be in the RAF?" Jack perched on the end of his bed. "It's a dangerous job, you know, especially these days."

Jules shrugged again, grinning. "Exactly."

"And what about your sister?" Jack turned his attention to the pillows Cate had arranged earlier, piling them up to suit his own preference before sliding up the bed and relaxing back, fingers clasped across his stomach. "Is she really as scary as she seems?"

Straddling the chair in front of the dressing table and leaning his arms across the back, Jules looked reflective. "Blythe is cleverer than most people, as clever as Dad in many ways," he said. "Probably end up even cleverer than our uncle, and he's about as smart as they come," he tilted his head. "I'm pretty bright too, but I see things in a different way to her," he smiled again. "I'm more like Mum, in a lot of ways, though I look more like Uncle Sherlock. Bly looks like Mummy but is really very much like Dad. _Families_ ," he shook his head, amused.

"I know your father is in the Government," Jack stared up at the ornate coving around the edge of the ceiling, "because that's how he heard I'd applied for a job as a servitor in the Houses of Parliament," he said. "Your dad told me you were all in need of help as there were all kinds of things happening and they needed someone temporarily to take some of the pressure off the normal things so that he and your mother could concentrate on bigger problems. Does that sound about right?"

"Yeah, it does, kind of," Jules rested his chin on his hands. "Mum used to be a university professor, but then she got into writing and now she does that as well as a lot of work for charitable organisations, so she's almost always busy. It's going to be hard for her to organise having the house completely redecorated as well," the young Holmes sounded pensive.

"You're having this place completely done up?" Jack looked around. "And if both your parents are busy, I guess they might like some help with organising tradespeople and deliveries and keeping track of all sorts of ... stuff?" there was an odd tone of interest in the young man's voice.

"I suppose so," Jules pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. "I know Mum is getting an architect in, but she's also got a lot of work to do with her new book coming out, and then there's all the things to do with our school ... she's flat out, really."

"Your mother writes? What kind of things?"

"Mummy writes spy novels," Jules grinned. "She's written a dozen of them so far and people seem to like them."

"Would I have read any of them?" Jack was curious. He'd never worked for a writer before.

Jules grinned harder, pointing to the paperback Jack had laid on the bedside table. "That's one of hers," he looked a little superior.

Reaching over for the creased copy of _London Lies_ , Jack sat up, a look of sudden focus across his features. "Your mother wrote _this?_ Your mother is Catherine Adin?"

Shrugging again, Jules said nothing.

"Mada ... Mrs Hol ... Cate, your _mother_ , is _Catherine_ _Adin?_ "

"The odds are pretty good she'd be someone's mother," Jules laughed at the look on his new friend's face.

"Holy wow," Jack sat back, dazed. "Never worked for anyone famous, before," he said, pleased.

"And you might have heard of my Uncle Sherlock, as well," Jules was grinning now. "He's been in the headlines a few times, too."

Frowning, the tall blond searched for the name _Sherlock Holmes_ in his memory. On finding a possible match, he looked back at the dark-haired boy occupying his bedroom chair.

"Not the detective chappie who wears that bloody silly hat?" Jack leaned forward again. "The guy who found the Chinese Ambassador's stolen gold dragons last year? The one who saved the Banksy mural from the City of London Council by having the whole building put under arrest? _That_ Sherlock Holmes?"

Jules scratched an ear, but kept silent. His air of smug awareness ample confirmation.

"Bloody _hell_ ," Jack Parrish slumped back against the pillows. He'd landed up right in the middle of things this time.

"And what with this place going to be done up, and Mummy's new book coming out and Daddy saying he's thinking about retiring, which means he'll probably be spending more time down at Deepdene ..." Julius paused. "Did my father tell you we have a country house in Surrey and a small property down in Cornwall?"

Jack felt his pulse surge.

"There's a country residence in Surrey?" he asked, carefully. "And another in Cornwall?"

"Oh yes," Jules watched the man's face very carefully. " _Deepdene_ is a few acres in Westhumble, just down from Leatherhead," he said. "Nice little place, actually. Mummy adores it. Daddy's great-grandfather, General, Sir Julius Tarquin Holmes built it in nineteen-o-two. I'm named after him; probably one of the reasons I want to be in the armed services."

"And the place in Cornwall?" Jack felt a little dizzy. _No wonder Holmes Senior was old school with a Sir in the family._ There had been a lot to take in these last few minutes. "You did say there was another place in Cornwall?"

"Mmm, yes. Not an estate, but a really nice big old house with a private beach," Jules perked up. "There's even a secret passage down to a hidden cove on the other side of the headland," he added, trying hard not to laugh at the blond man's expression. Anyone would think he'd won the lottery.

"So a townhouse in London that's going to get done up and will require considerable management in the meantime; a country estate in Surrey called _Deepdene_ and a seaside property down in Cornwall; your mother is an acclaimed and very famous author; your uncle is the internationally well-known detective; your great-great granddad was a General Sir; your father is a high-up in the Government, and both you and your sister are probably too clever for your own good," Jack exhaled slowly. "Did I miss anything?"

"My paternal grandfather was Sir Jocelyn Holmes of the Home Office and my grandmother was Lady Elinor Holmes, a noted beauty of her time."

"Oh, dear god," Jack pressed a hand to his head. _Another Sir_. It was all a bit much. When he'd agreed to take the job on a temporary basis, he'd had no idea what he was getting into. This setup sounded a lot more than he'd bargained for.

Sitting up straight, he took a deep breath. _Even if this was just a temporary billet, the professional butler always did his or her work to the very highest level_. Jack Parrish was not the kind of man to let the side down.

"Right then," he said. "Can you show me the rest of the house and tell me what's likely to happen in the renovations?" he asked. "Just so I have an idea of what's going to be expected and where I might be the most use to everyone."

"I can do that, Jack," Jules stepped out into the main passage, his expression of unconcealed calculation hidden in the shadows.

###

"I insist," Sherlock locked stares with his brother. "It will be expected of me."

John had long since joined Cate in the kitchen for coffee, allowing the brothers to negotiate whatever it was they were choosing to fight over this time.

"I assure you, Sherlock, it is not expected of anyone, and I dare say Blythe will be entirely happy to keep things that way," Mycroft sounded cautious.

"But you're going to have a talk with her?"

"Of course, but I am her father and there are certain ... items of information I would like to ascertain before the relationship proceeds."

"I have the same desire," Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Blythe has come to depend upon my advice and guardianship as her only uncle, and I have come to ... have come to ... _cherish_ our relationship," he finished defiantly. "If I were not to speak with her on this matter, she may imagine I have lost interest in her wellbeing and that would be unacceptable."

Mycroft was tired. It had been a long day and he knew there were even longer days ahead. He wanted to husband his reserves, which meant not engaging in unnecessary intellectual wrangling with his brother.

But this was _Blythe_. His daughter ... _his child_ ...

 _And if Sherlock spoke with her first, then she would be more accepting of questions from her father_ , Mycroft realised.

"Very well," he said. "But be aware you run the risk of disrupting the very thing you hold so dear," he said slowly. "Don't upset her, Sherlock," he murmured. "Whatever else Blythe may be, she is still untested in so many ways."

"Then this will be another of those tests," Sherlock stood, a look of rare understanding and tolerance on his face.

"Blythe is in the rear lounge, waiting for you, Sherlock," Cate looked up as she heard footsteps enter the kitchen.

"Be kind, now," John sipped his coffee and raised his eyebrows. "She's just a little girl."

"My niece was never just a _little_ girl," Sherlock turned on his heel and headed to the nearby door of the smaller lounge Cate had effectively taken over as her own office.

The room was only semi-lit as he closed the door behind him; only the four wall-sconces illuminated the large space. Enough light to see by, but also sufficient shadow to hide behind. _Clever_.

Blythe was seated at her mother's desk, elbows resting on the heavy wooden top, fingers linked. The wall-lights were above her, leaving her face in soft shadow. She didn't move as he took one of the seats facing the desk, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap. He stared hard at her face.

Lifting her eyes marginally, Blythe met her uncle's gaze. She had expected this conversation from the instant she'd last seen him standing in the kitchen doorway. It was his way.

 _But it might not be hers anymore_. She was growing up now, Mummy had already accepted the fact; Blythe had seen it in her expression, heard it in the tone of her mother's voice. Uncle Sherlock might be the world's greatest deductive detective, but she was no intellectual slouch either. Something had changed tonight and she felt ... different. _Let him do his worst_. Blythe's expression hadn't changed an iota.

Assessing the motionless child sitting at Cate's desk, Sherlock realised just how much she had begun to resemble her mother. The same heavy length of dark-brown hair, the same pale skin and delicacy of feature. The only thing that leaped out to claim her as a Holmes were her father's eyes. Eyes of a piercing dark blue. Eyes that were currently meeting his own with nary a blink or a moment's shift of focus. His niece might be turning into a physical replica of her mother, but her internal modality was entirely down to Mycroft.

"So," he said, slowly. " _Boyfriend_."

Blythe remained silent and unmoving. There was no question yet.

"You met him at Westminster, of course, most likely in the library," Sherlock began. "He comes from money, probably an old family; present company excepted, Westminster does tend to appeal to those of a more traditional bent. He's only a little older than you, I'd say no more than seventeen. He is physically tall, with light hair and is moderately attractive, probably engages in at least one form of senselessly physical sporting activity. His politics run to the conventional though he sees his future in something intellectual but not mainstream; archaeology, perhaps, or possibly museum curation or even the vague notion of a Bishopric, if his family run to the religious, though that would not be my first assumption."

Sherlock folded his arms. "He speaks at least three languages, one of which must be Latin or some other ancient tongue; I'd speculate it might be Sanskrit or Greek, something he uses in his research. He dresses well and has impeccable manners, as well as a slight fondness for nineteenth-century romantic classics; does he prefer Austin or the Brontës? He rides, but not to hounds. He likes to think he has a sense of humour and enjoys a variety of musical forms, including the classical," Sherlock paused, thoughtfully. 'He's not as clever as you are, and you both know it."

Blythe had witnessed this scene many, many times in the past, where her uncle, and occasionally, her father, would dissect a scenario or a person's lift-history, in order to extrapolate the next likely event or development.

But never before had Sherlock applied it to _her_ in so direct or personal a manner. Blythe reflected that her uncle had no reason to be cross or upset with her and therefore, this unusual display of his was not any indication of censure, but rather, one of support and concern.

 _He was anxious for her_.

Smiling inwardly, Blythe remained impassive. "Is there a question in there?" she asked, softly.

Sherlock revised his earlier impression. His niece wasn't just an internal reflection of his brother, she was turning into Mycroft's _understudy_. He paused, contemplating his next utterance.

"Are you ... _sure_ ... about him?" he said.

Blythe relaxed. The worst was past and all that now remained were the details. She puffed out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding in.

"His name is Landry Banister and he's nearly seventeen, obviously no older because he'd have left school by now if he was and as that's the only place I get to spend much time with strangers, then _yes_ ," she nodded, dropping her hands down to the desktop. "He's tall and blondish, as you say, and I like that, probably because all the men in my family are tall and I've come to accept that as a mark of male attractiveness. I realise I have two short blond hairs on the shoulder of my school blazer, which explains your assumption as nobody else here has hair that colour. Landry and I met in the school library, unsurprising as I spend at least a third of my time in there these days. He and I were both looking for the same book on reading techniques of ancient Biblical documents as we are both interested in translating the Dead Sea documents," she paused. "Ancient Hebrew is his principal ancient language, in case you wanted to know, but his Latin is quite good too, mainly because it's a required language in the Classics program we're both in. Of course he dresses well and has impeccable manners; everyone at the school is drilled _ad nauseum_ into being mannerly and dressing well. Naturally his politics are conventional, mostly because his family is conventional and he's only sixteen so hasn't really had time to choose anything else. His family have a place on the Sussex Downs where his mother breeds and trains racehorses which is where their money comes from, so of course he rides too; you can probably smell horses on the scarf he lent me and which is currently hanging by the front door and the reason for the blond hairs on my blazer, which is hanging under the scarf. You already know my feelings on hunting; I could never be attracted to anyone who imagines bloodsports to be the equivalent of fun," she stopped to see if that were sufficient details. Judging by her uncle's intent gaze, it wasn't. She sighed.

"Landry wants to be a Paleographer, but it's getting harder and harder to do any field-work in the Middle East, these days," Blythe shrugged. "He enjoys rugby, mostly because he's always been tall for his age and kept being picked for teams whether he wanted to be in them or not, so he's kind of gone with the flow on that one. He likes all sorts of music because not only are we fortunate enough to have a school music department that specialises in both secular and religious classics, but everyone at school also has access to all sorts of music online, no it's no wonder my generation has eclectic tastes. He's read a lot of nineteenth-century literature as we all have and, like me, prefers Austin to both Dickens and the Brontës. He tells the world's worst jokes and he also tells me _he doesn't care how clever I am_ ," Blythe leaned forward, holding Sherlock's pale blue eyes with her own darker ones. "And no, I'm not _sure_ about anything, but I want to try this and see where it goes."

There was a pregnant pause.

"And are we to meet this paragon at some point in the near future?" Sherlock sniffed, clearly not entirely appeased by the data provided.

"Maybe," Blythe raised her eyebrows exactly as her mother did. "If my family promise to behave themselves."

"You expect a great deal."

"I expect everyone to give my friend the benefit of the doubt and be aware that, if you upset him, you will be upsetting me."

"Emotional blackmail," Sherlock glared and shoved both hands in his pockets.

"Absolutely," Blythe grinned. "I'm glad you approve."

"Your father will probably demand to have his entire clan fingerprinted and vetted for unwholesome political and professional contacts, you realise?" Sherlock was not about to let his concern go quite so easily.

"I thought that might have been your preference," she laughed.

"No, but a sample of the boy's DNA would be an acceptable compromise."

"Are we done with this?" Blythe stood up, a happy smile on her face. No matter how irritating her uncle could be, it was only because he cared so deeply while pretending not to care too much at all.

"I have to go, but remember, your father will have the last say, so beware," Sherlock placed his hands on her shoulders as they reached the door. "You are even more precious to him that you are to ... other people."

"You're such an _idiot_ , Uncle Sherlock," Blythe slid her arm around his waist and walked him towards the front door where John was waiting

###

"So this is where your sister wants to have her room?" Jack stood in the middle of the semi-cleared floor space, hands on his hips as he looked around. The lower ground-floor of the houses in this area were all substantial; high ceilinged, with large windows coming down from pavement-level.

"Mum had the place cleaned out and new damp-proofing put in a couple of years ago," Jules assessed the sheer amount of junk that was down here. How four people could accumulate such vast quantities of paraphernalia was a mystery. Boxes of old sports equipment and toys competed for room with ancient vacuum cleaners and a washing machine that had seen better days. There was even a small trampoline leaning up against one of the walls.

In one far-off corner was a sink, a shower unit and a large space of concrete flooring with a big drain in the middle, Jack was curious.

"Mummy decided to try hydroponics for a hobby," he said. "But she ran out of time and the plants turned into Triffids and tried to take over the entire cellar. But it would be easy to have a proper bathroom built if Blythe really did want to live down here," he turned, nodding at a door embedded in opposite far wall. "There's even an emergency exit over there," he added. "Whoever lived down here could have their own private entrance."

"Also their own private burglar," Jack made a face, unhappy with the lack of visible security.

"Oh, don't worry about that, Dad's got the entire house wired for anything and everything that could go wrong." Jules looked around. "He's very safety-conscious."

"Good to hear," the tall blond had a thing about security.

"So now you've seen everything except my parent's suite," Jules lifted his hands. "Any questions?"

"What time does the Mast ... what time does Mr Holmes leave for his office in the morning and what time does he return in the evening? Where does Mada ... Mrs Hol ... _Cate_ do her work and what's her usual routine? What time do you and your sister need to be up and ready for school? What's the routine at the weekends? What's the agenda?" Jack Parrish ticked the questions off on his fingers. "Is the family thinking of, _er_ , going down to Surrey anytime soon?" he added. "Not that it makes any difference," he added quickly, "but I was curious."

"You need to have a chat with Mum," Jules suggested. "She'll probably show you the family event diary so you can keep track of who's doing what ... I think we're having a bit of a dinner-party here next week, too."

"A social diary? Your family keeps a social calendar?" Jack's voice was oddly tense.

"Yes, of course," the young Holmes smiled easily. "Otherwise how would any of us remember where we're supposed to be?"

"And ... a dinner party?" Jack's hand rested on Jule's shoulder. He squeezed.

"Well, yes. Mummy likes to have formal dinners as often as possible; she says it's the best way to learn how to behave in public."

"Your mother is a saint," Jack breathed deeply. "Now show me this social calendar."

###

She had waited until both her uncles had gone before tapping on the door of her father's office. Blythe had no doubt Daddy would be curious about Landry, but as she had clearly done no wrong, nor bent, let alone broken any family rules, she really wasn't all that bothered. Her father might not always be the most visibly emotional of people, but nor would she want him to be. Blythe understood him and he understood her; he was possibly the only person who really did understand.

"Come in, Sweetheart."

She smiled.

Taking a seat in front of his desk, she allowed her eyes to roam across several of the upside-down documents lying open, but only for a moment before he turned to her and looked encouraging.

"So tell me everything you think I should know about this young man of yours," he said, his eyes wide and unjudging.

Blythe took a deep breath. "Landry Banister is very nice and I like him a great deal," she said, after a moment's consideration; her father would already have deduced the same particulars as had her uncle, therefore he only needed to know the subjective rather than objective details. "I'd want the family to meet him at some point, if that's all right?"

"How about you invite him over for dinner one evening, perhaps one night next week? I believe both Sherlock and John may be coming for dinner. We could make it a family affair," Mycroft took pains to sound relaxed about the whole thing.

Blythe pondered the possibility. Landry would have to meet everyone at some point if they were seriously considering a relationship, but the entire family in one go?

"I'd have to ask him and see how he felt about that," she said. "There's usually only he and his mother at home; his father's in the Government like you and is rarely around, so a big crowd might be a little daunting."

"Oh?" Mycroft's smile was vague and non-committal. "His father being?"

"Actually, I'm not sure," Blythe frowned slightly. "Landry lives with his mother at weekends, and Banister is her maiden name, not his father's ... he said his father's surname was _Devereux_ and that he worked for some agency in the Home Office, but he never mentioned a Christian name or any other details."

Mycroft felt a spike of alarm.

"James Devereux of the National Crime Agency?"

"That sounds about right," Blythe narrowed her eyes a little at the change in her father's tone. "Why?"

There was a long silence between them.

"What is it, Daddy?" Blythe felt distinctly uneasy.

"My dear, I am terribly sorry," Mycroft's words were incredibly soft as he reached out a hand towards her. "But I cannot possibly have that boy in this house."


	4. Chapter 4

_A Difficult Situation – An Act of Treason – Stories – Enlightenment – Handy for All Manner of Things – Fear._

###

Blythe frowned. "Why not?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm not able to give you a reason you would consider sufficient at this time, but which is, needless to say, of major consequence," his eyes held hers, hoping for a sign of acquiescence. "But, on the same grounds, I don't want you entering into any kind of personal relationship with this young man, nor do I want you being seen to be a _confident_ or in any way someone with whom he is intimate," he added, holding up the fingers of his right hand as he saw her incipient protest. "I'm sorry, but you are going to have to accept that I have very good reasons for saying these things, no matter how much we both might wish it was otherwise."

"Not only do you not want to meet Landry, but you also expect me to have nothing to do with him at school? To avoid him? _Ignore_ him?" Blythe was half-breathless with something that might have been anger or disbelief. "You expect me to walk away from my friend without any explanation, without ..." she waved her hands in the air, for once, lost for words. Her jaw set tightly. "I can't do that."

"It's crucial that you _do_ , Darling," Mycroft leaned closer, his eyes searching her expression for any indication that she could read between his statements. "I don't want you having any contact with him; no private conversations, and certainly no situation where he's alone with you."

"You don't _trust_ me?" Blythe found her voice had turned husky with anger. "You imagine I'd have such little self-respect that I'd ... that _Landry_ and I would ..." her words failed again and she shook her head, her face a window to an inner conflict. "You're the cleverest person I'll ever know and yet you still think that because I'm only fourteen, that I'll be silly and stupid and go off and risk everything _because I can't be trusted?_ "

"It's not a bit like that, my love, but you have to understand that ..."

" _Then what is it like?_ " Blythe jumped to her feet, her face flushed and outraged, her eyes burning with unusual ferocity that her father expected her to understand his decision without explanation, yet wasn't willing to trust her enough to let her handle the situation in her own way. "What is it _like_ , Daddy?"

There was a stifling pause between them, before Blythe turned and flew from his presence, not even slamming the door on her way out, but by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, running directly up to her room.

Groaning under his breath, Mycroft leaned his head against the fingers of one hand, sighing heavily. This was not at all how he had envisaged the discussion would go, but of _all_ the boys with whom his daughter could possibly have formed an attachment ...

"What on earth have you done to upset Blythe?" Cate stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other gesturing back down the passage towards the staircase. "She went storming upstairs with a face like fury ..." she paused, taking in his gloomy expression and the downward curve of his mouth. " _Oh_ ," Cate sagged wearily against the woodwork. "You _didn't_ say something terrible about the boy she's sweet on, did you?" she watched the slight flinch at the corner of his eyes. "Tell me you didn't upset our fourteen-year-old daughter by disapproving of her having found a beau?"

Mycroft leaned his head harder against his fingers and briefly closed his eyes.

"Oh, _Mycroft_ ," Cate took the chair Blythe had so recently vacated. "You are such a useless arse when you try and handle these things."

"Blythe cannot have anything to do with the Banister boy," Mycroft felt he was on firmer ground with his wife. "There are ... reasons why I say this, which have nothing to do with our daughter's age or trustworthiness, or anything about her; it's nothing to do with _Blythe_ , in fact."

"Then is it the boy?" Cate pressed for some sort of coherent answer. "Is it him? Is there something you know about him that you can't say?"

Flattening his lips, Mycroft gazed at Cate in exasperation. "Darling, if I can't tell Blythe, what makes you imagine I can say anything to you?"

"Well, of course you can tell me," Cate sat back, a frown gathering on her forehead. "Apart from anything else, I need to know why you'd rather have our daughter angry than informed; you know she almost never loses her temper these days, so whatever it was you said, you need to tell me why in order that I can put some perspective on the situation for her."

Mycroft looked tormented. "I can't tell you anything," he rubbed his forehead. "Which is precisely what I said to Blythe, but she inferred that I ..."

"You mean you are choosing _not_ to tell me, not that you _can't_ ," Cate sat up straight, a cool note arriving in her voice. "Even though you know, without the slightest doubt, that I am the safest audience you will ever have, _bar none_ , are you possibly suggesting that I cannot be trusted either?"

Mycroft realised he was exactly one step away from alienating exactly half his family. He reached for her hand.

"Darling, you _know_ I trust everyone here, and most especially you, with my life, but this thing is ... more important."

"More important than Blyth? More important than your relationship with me?" Cate fixed him with a steady gaze.

He squeezed her hand and looked wretched. "Yes."

He felt Cate's slow inhale all the way down through her fingers, even as they were being withdrawn from his grasp.

"Then I wish you well of it," she said quietly, leaving his office and closing the door softly behind her.

Slamming the side of his fist hard down on the top of his desk, Mycroft welcomed the pain. It reminded him that things could indeed become worse, though at the present moment, he wasn't sure quite how.

###

"I'm fairly certain it's an arrestable offence to even _contemplate_ doing this, Sherlock," John hissed as he held the torch beam steady on the third of the security locks that adorned the basement access door into Number Two, Carlton Gardens, SW1.

The two patrol police officers, normally stationed by the main entrance at pavement level had been drawn into a heated argument that had begun – coincidentally – not forty feet away, just over the other side of the small roundabout outside the building. Two young men who had – apparently – decided that now was the perfect time to reconcile their differences through means of fisticuffs and a general scuffle. By the time the police waded in, loud words that had previously hinted only of mild irritation, was now – conveniently – much louder, with overtones of global conflict and incipient Armageddon. Both officers were nicely distracted.

Given the encroaching darkness, the act of leaving the pavement and slipping down the single flight of iron-railed steps in order to reach the secured basement door was child's play. The first two locks had been complex enough, though Sherlock's experience picking countless other government locks was undoubtedly an advantage, but the third one was more than usually tricky.

"The lock's wired, John," Sherlock hissed back. "If I get a single turn wrong here, the alarm will go off and we'll be sitting ducks."

"Then make your mind up whether you can do it _or let's_ _go_ ," John tried to force more of his body into the overhang of the lower-floor doorway. "Those two guards will be back at their positions any second now, so if you can't do this, then let's get out of here and find another way, or ..."

"Got it," as the final lock clicked open without alarming anyone, Sherlock's grin was little more than a flash of white teeth in the gloom, but it was enough. Opening the door very cautiously, they stepped into what had clearly been part of the huge old kitchens back when the house, and the six others like it, had been built by John Nash for London's most eminent nineteenth-century politicians and Statesmen. There were only two of the houses left now, the others unable to resist the demand for high-rise development. The house next door was the official home of the Foreign Secretary, but this one, Number Two, Carlton Gardens, was where Her Majesty's Privy Council held office and where, hopefully, Her Majesty kept her private correspondence.

"We need to find the Council Clerk's office," Sherlock flashed his own torch around the barely-lit space, now a staff room of some sort, with a small kitchen in one corner, several large vending machines and a scattering of round tables and chairs across the ubiquitous vinyl-covered floor.

"I'd have thought the Queen's correspondence merited a bit more security that simply being stuffed into some clerk's filing cabinet," John muttered, heading towards a set of double-doors in one corner, peering through the upper glass panels before trying the handle. The door opened smoothly and without sound.

"The Clerk of the Privy Council is the head of the office," Sherlock spoke softly. "Usually a very senior Civil Servant indeed and frequently a _Sir_ ," he added. "The job's considered quite an honour in itself. The current incumbent is one Giles Cole and his private office is on the second floor."

There were the steel doors of two small lifts directly in front of them and a staircase to the right.

"Best not take the lift," John was already on the third stair. "Bit of a security giveaway if everyone else has gone home."

The large building was silent and seemingly empty so that even the soft brush of their rubber-soled shoes on the pristine floor reverberated in the still air. The wide and generous staircase wound in a pleasing curve up and through the centre of the Nash design. In minutes only, Sherlock and John were standing in the middle of a wide, carpeted passageway.

"Which way?" John looked left and right. There was a line of identical doors stretching off in both directions, the entire length of the passage illuminated by small downlights embedded in the ceiling.

"No idea; better split up."

Heading off to the right, John wasn't completely sure what he was looking for, but suspected he'd know it once found. It seemed that all the rooms on this floor opened off this one central corridor. There were large, potted palms standing against the walls at regimented intervals, their graceful sweeping fronds adding a gentler touch to the Regency lines so beloved by the architects of the period.

He had walked past several of these when he heard the sound of soft whistling. Turning, about to tell Sherlock to tone it down, John saw the back of a uniformed security guard standing at the top of the stairs, looking down the left branch of the passage; exactly where Sherlock had gone. On one side of the man's belt, there was a baton. On the other, a small Taser. In an instant, John stepped back against the wall behind the nearest palm. It wasn't a perfect cover, but in the darkness, it seemed to do the job as the guard looked to his right, almost exactly where John was hidden, then turned away in the same movement.

Pressed hard up against the smooth painted surface of the wall behind him, John held his breath. If the guard chose to walk down in this direction, there'd be no getting away. He needed to get into one of these rooms; if any of the doors were possibly unlocked ...

Keeping his eyes on the dark-shirted figure still standing at the top of the stairs and checking something on his phone, John allowed an arm to reach out slowly towards the nearest door only eighteen-inches away from his left side. Fumbling for the handle his fingers found cold metal; would it be unlocked? Gripping the long handle more securely, John pressed down deliberately.

Nothing happened. His stomach sank.

He pressed down a little more, feeling a wave of relief on feeling a soft _clunk_ as the door opened under the last bit of pressure. Using his fingertips to push the door inwards and holding his breath in case of squeaky hinges, John made sure the guard wasn't actually looking directly at him as he slid two feet to his left and backwards into the darkened space of the room behind him.

Leaning back against the closed door, he stood for a few seconds just to calm his pulse; the last thing he and Sherlock could afford to risk was discovery. The younger Holmes might joke about being done for treason, but there were still some lines, even now, even after all these years, that John found difficult to cross.

But while he was in one of these room, he felt he might as well have a bit of a look around the place; one never knew what might be found with a little effort.

It was a large room, as all of them on this floor probably were. There were five very tall windows spaced out across the opposite wall overlooking a darkened St James Park, and at least thirty feet between them and the door where he currently stood. Like all the other Regency buildings in London, this one had the same high ceilings and ornate coving; there were even five beautifully-cast ceiling roses spaced out along the length of the room parallel to the windows. There was a great and elaborate red-patterned carpet that filled the centre of the room, exposing polished wooden boards around the edges. The carpet alone could probably have paid the rent on 221b for at least a year. There were four old-fashioned wooden desks occupying the centre of the room, or rather not _old_ , John realised, but antique.

He also realised that this was unlikely to be the office of the top dog in this particular government kennel; this looked more like a lesser administrative or clerical room.

So if the juniors hung out down _this_ end of the corridor, then the top nobs were probably down the other end. _Where Sherlock was_.

John knew he had to leave the safety of this temporary hide-away and try to make it down to where, even now, Sherlock might be writhing on the floor following a close encounter with a Taser. _Anything_ might have already happened, but he'd not have heard anything as sound would not penetrate the solid walls of this old building. John realised he'd simply have to risk discovery in order to find Sherlock.

Pressing his face to the crack between the door and its frame, he turned the handle downwards, slowly, slowly, until it came free. Pulling it towards him a scant fraction, John was relieved to see there was nobody immediately outside the room in which he'd sought refuge. Nor was there any sound at all.

_Especially no whistling._

Deciding this was a moderately positive situation, he pulled the door open a fraction more, just enough for him to stick his head out and look back down the passageway. The faint glow of the downlights was sufficient to show John that not only was there no dark-uniformed body anywhere near his particular door, but the guard was nowhere to be seen. This meant he'd either left the floor entirely, probably on one of his nightly patrols of the building, _or_ ... or he had gone into one of the rooms. But there was really no reason for the guard to have gone into any of these rooms, was there, not unless ...

John was out the door in an instant, jogging silently back towards the main central stairwell when he saw the slant of light further down the passageway where an open door cast a slice of bright red across the shadowed carpeting. His heart sank.

There could be only one reason for this door to be open.

Sherlock had been caught in the very act of doing whatever it was he had decided to do. The guard must have got him red-handed. John listened hard to hear if any police sirens approaching outside. It could only be a matter of minutes at best before the authorities arrived and then there'd be some very _real_ trouble. Apart from the breaking-and-entering and regardless of anything else, by accessing the Monarch's private correspondence, he and Sherlock had actually committed a treasonous act.

And what if his friend had been struck by that nasty little device the guard carried ... the doctor in him pushed his feet forward at speed.

Swinging the partly-open door wide, John's fears were realised.

Sherlock stood, arms stretched out to either side, his back towards a long bank of filing cabinets covering the length of one wall in this, a much more individualised office. Though significantly smaller than the one John had just left, this space was clearly designed to meet a much grander purpose, with far more elaborate furnishings and window-hangings. Heavily framed and gilded oil portraits adorned the remaining walls, each depicting some stern-faced, magisterial type.

"Sherlock?"

The guard he'd seen earlier, whistling at the head of the stairs, now stood in front of a stationary Holmes, though John noted there was no weapon drawn or indeed, any sign of an angry standoff. This, he had to admit, was a little puzzling. At the sound of his voice, the man started, turning and unholstering the stun-gun in the same movement.

"I'm sure we can give you a very rational explanation for this," John lifted his hands slightly outwards, his palms up and empty. "There's no need for this to get nasty now, is there?"

"John?" Sherlock turned to stare at his accomplice-in-crime. "John, what _are_ you doing?"

"Just reassuring our friend here that there's no need for him to act hastily," John kept his voice low and unthreatening as the guard's hand lifted instinctively towards the unexpected intruder.

"There's absolutely no need for that ..." Sherlock had turned back towards the dark-uniformed man, attempting to deflect the hand now rising up to a horizontal level, the armed Taser clenched in whitened fingers.

"Now, _no!_ " John was already backing away when the weapon was fired low-down at his hip, realising even in that moment that the guard was following his training and attempting not to do too much harm. Twin barbs struck through the heavy denim of his jeans.

And then the pain hit.

John had been tasered once before, on a training course years and years ago which Lestrade had demanded both he and Sherlock attend if they wanted to keep working with the Met. It had seemed such a little thing at the time, although the full shock of the Taser strike had had him on the ground and retching in a split-second.

Knowing there was no way to avoid the gut-seizing white-hot anguish this time, he began to drop to the ground before his legs gave way, as they inevitably would. He hoped he wouldn't disgrace himself too much by howling.

The stinging wrap of searing agony never came.

There was pain, but it was more of the smack with a ruler kind of sting than any bowel-loosening torment that stopped the lungs and shut down the brain.

Lying on the floor, John looked first at the two electrodes piercing the leg of his jeans, his eyes following the curling black wires back up to the now-shaking hand that held the small plastic box of the Taser itself. Clearly, the device hadn't been properly charged.

Collapsing back on the floor, John let out a massive sigh of relief as his body recovered from the adrenalin rush of dread.

"I'm _so_ sorry," the guard had one hand over his mouth, while the other still held onto the black device. He looked as if he were about to faint.

"I'll just take that, I think," Sherlock stepped forward and relieved the man not only of the weapon grasped in his nerveless fingers, but also of the holster that clipped the thing to his belt. Laying both items flat on the desk, Sherlock strode across to his friend, bending down and extending a hand.

"Both barbs made contact, so I assume the battery was low," he said. "It's the only reason you're not thrashing around in agony," the tall, dark-haired man stood back, pulling his shorter friend up with him.

"No need to sound so bloody blasé about it all," John glared long and hard at the stricken guard who seemed, in hindsight, not to be being terribly guard-like about the whole thing.

"Not the real guard, John," Sherlock answered the unasked question as he returned to his earlier spot in front of the bank of cabinets. "This one is called ..." he paused, frowning, his eyes flicking momentarily towards the still visibly shaken man. "Barry ... something; brother of the genuine article and someone I did a little favour for a couple of years back. He actually works here as one of the ordinary clerical underlings and promised to help me whenever he could and look," Sherlock lifted his hand again, waving a tiny square of paper as he smiled brightly. "He is."

"Helping you to do what?" John had unhooked the small metal clasps from his trousers and was now dusting himself off, though truth be told, there was probably more dust on the floor now than on him. This room was immaculate.

"To locate the appropriate cabinet of files," Sherlock waved the small note. "I have clear instructions not to look at anything except this specific collection of files which is housed ..." his words tailed off as he squinted down at the badly-written note, then looked back to Barry for confirmation, then lifting his left hand to count along the rows of cabinets from the centre towards the wall.

"Seven in and third drawer down," his fingers matching his words, pulling on a specific drawer-handle. It was locked, something he was clearly expecting as he brought out a circle of narrow, odd-looking keys.

"But wouldn't everything ... all the letters and correspondence be digitised and electronic by now?" John rubbed his thigh where the undercharged Taser had struck. Even though it had barely been more than a bit of a kick, it still stung.

"Digitise Her Majesty's royal ramblings?" Sherlock sounded amused as he fiddled with the slivers of metal, fitting first one and then another into the Yale lock on the drawer. "Sorry, John, but this is still one of those areas where anything from the pen of the monarch is considered mightier than the database," he paused as the sensation of things moving within the steel lock-mechanism.

" _Ah_ ," he smiled, pulling the drawer smoothly and silently towards him, pointing his torch directly into the neatly typed file-labels. He soon found what he wanted, pulling out a thick folder bearing the label 'Honours Committee Nominations'.

"This only covers the nominations for the present year, so the letter we're looking for has to be in here somewhere," Sherlock sat down in the chair behind the desk, oblivious to the barely-concealed gasp of the not-guard Barry.

"Assuming everything has been filed in date-order rather than alphabetically ..." his long fingers dug through the thick wad of paper surprisingly swiftly, stopping and going back one sheet as a name ... the name he'd been searching for, caught his eye. "Well, well," he murmured, scanning the several lines of text above the somewhat florid signature of one Giles Cole.

He had just found out why Mycroft had been recommended to the Queen as the next Baron of Esgair.

###

Cate had already gone to sleep by the time Mycroft had come to bed. She'd spent the latter part of her evening listening to Blythe vent about the vile unfairness of ill-considered parental bias, of the incontrovertible hardships facing teenage daughters and of the heavy-handed blind authority of certain male members of her immediate family.

Listening to her daughter mutter ominous imprecations had lightened Cate's own bad mood. Mycroft might be a lost cause when it came to the finer nuances of relationship-management, but really, he had done a fairly good job over the years. Going completely off-track once in a while was hardly the end of the world.

"Your father is dealing with a problem which may or may not involve Landry Banister," she said, eventually, stroking shining dark hair away from her daughter's gloomy face as Blythe's temper ran itself out. "He can't tell anyone about the details, because the problem is probably horrendously clandestine involving at the very least the security of the Western world," she smiled down into eyes that were so much like Mycroft's. "You know your father would never deliberately want to upset you, he adores you, you silly muffin," Cate rested her face on Blythe's shoulder.

"Then why won't he tell me what the problem is?" Blythe demanded. "I can help, he knows I can."

"Of course he knows, but he also knows how easy it is to land yourself in all sorts of trouble in which you are neither trained nor experienced," Cate leaned back, sighing. "I speak from personal experience."

Blythe heard a world of wisdom in her mother's sigh. "Tell me," she said, resting her chin on her hands.

Cate wondered if fourteen was old enough to hear some of the stories she could tell. The understated but amused expression on Blythe's face convinced her it was.

"Well," she said, getting comfortable. "There was a time, not long after your father and I were married, when I had to go to Spain for a conference ..."

###

Waking up with Mycroft's long arm wrapped over her, Cate smiled. It was rare she could manage to keep an argument going between them. Relaxing back against the warmth of his chest, she sighed sleepily, closing her eyes again in the dimness of their bedroom.

"Am I forgiven?" the low murmur of his words were pressed into the nape of her neck.

"I'm not the one you should be asking," she murmured back. "My peeve was only a little one."

"Ah, _God_ ," she felt his groan reverberate through her as Mycroft tightened his arm, pulling her closer. "I am, as my American colleagues so often like to say, between a rock and a hard place," it was his turn to sigh. "If I say anything at all to Blythe, she's going to end up deducing the bulk of the scenario and then extrapolating that information into a series of contingent alternatives, any of which she is more than able to follow up if she puts her mind to it," he buried his face in the softness of Cate's hair.

"If I say nothing, she's going to be angry with me and if I tell her what she wants, then I may be placing her in danger," his words were muffled but clear enough.

"If you don't tell her anything, what are the odds, do you think, that she'll actually do as you directed?"

Cate felt his body tense and she smiled again, turning around under his arm so she could see his face. "Did you sleep through the entirety of your teenage years, or was it just the fourteenth one?" she teased. "You have absolutely no concept at all of the logic of a teenager, have you?" Cate pressed a kiss to his chest.

"Both our children are intelligent, sensible, rational and realistic individuals," he said, eventually. "There is no good reason for Blythe to disobey my request," he added, resting his chin on the top of her head.

Cate laughed softly. "As I said, you have no grasp at all of the teenage psyche, have you?"

Mycroft was silent, thinking. "I don't want her consorting with the Banister boy, no matter what."

"Then you must give her some basis to hang that on," Cate sighed again. "She's all but an adult now, they both are. You can't expect either of them to simply obey your orders as if they were minions in your office."

There was a quiet chuckle from above. "Minions?" Mycroft asked, the smile obvious in his tone. "You consider my staff to be _minions?_ "

"I think your staff would be whatever you asked them to be," she grinned. "But your children," she paused, leaning back against the pillows in order to meet his eyes. "And most especially, your _wife_ , require a little more enlightenment, if you don't mind."

"I never mind enlightening my wife," the smile was still in his voice.

"That wasn't quite the nature of enlightenment I had in mind," Cate pushed herself further back. "Besides, I have to get an early start today."

"No time like the present," Mycroft's expression was theatrically villainous.

###

"And what time are you planning on going shopping this morning?" Jack Parrish was back in his long white apron in the kitchen, doing something culinary with eggs and cheese, which he popped into the small oven. Walking over to the far bench, he set the coffee machine glugging away and the delicious scent of fresh roasted coffee beans was soon wafting through the air.

"I need to get a couple of new shirts and a pair of shoes," Jules leaned his elbows on the table, watching a competent cook at work. "I seem to keep growing out of everything far faster than I can be bothered with."

"And I have some books to collect at Waterstones, near the university," Blythe said. "There's no classes at school today as tonight's the parent – teacher evening, so we all have to be there for that," she grumbled, folding her arms. "Is there any toast or shall I make some?" she added. "I don't usually eat anything else at breakfast time."

"Doing toast now. What time are your parents down for breakfast?" Jack turned, checking the wall clock. "Is it usually about now?"

"Daddy's usually down here by now," Jules wrinkled his forehead. "Perhaps they slept in."

"Perhaps," Jack turned back to his culinary endeavours, the faintest of smiles on his mouth.

There was the distant sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Morning, Offspring," Mycroft sniffed the air with a gratified expression. "Different coffee?"

"Trying a slightly darker roast this morning, Mr Holmes," Jack was efficiency itself, pulling out Mycroft's chair and standing back, linen towel across his wrist. "I'll serve breakfast as soon as Mada ... Mrs Holm ... as soon as _Cate_ arrives, sir," he said. "Would you prefer tea or coffee to start?"

There was a large glass jug of chilled grapefruit juice already beading with the cold, right opposite a large brown teapot, one of Cate's favourites, Mycroft noted.

"I'll have tea this morning, Jack," Mycroft leaned back as a white napkin was laid across his lap.

"Blythe and I are going shopping this morning for some new gear and books," Jules sipped some juice while scanning the front page on the morning paper.

"Do you have sufficient funds, or am I to be raided like the Bank of England?" Mycroft asked, liberating the paper from his son's hands and peering across the room at the oven. "It's been made very clear to me since last night that I lack even the most rudimentary understanding of the needs of teenagers and I am hopeful of remedying such a shortcoming," he added, cheerfully.

"I need a new chair for my desk," Cate walked in, dropping a kiss onto the heads of both her children. "If you're feeling in the mood to lash out with the cash," she smiled, pleased as Mycroft caught her hand, pressing his lips briefly to the soft skin of her fingers. Taking her usual seat, she too was given a linen napkin. "Is that fresh-ground coffee I detect?" she asked, hopefully. "And something smells wonderful, what is it?"

"Breakfast this morning is goat's-cheese and Italian parsley _soufflé_ ," Jack announced, delivering hot toast direct to the table. "With toast and a selection of preserves," he added, placing individualised soufflés in front of each of the Holmes. "Once breakfast has finished, if you could let me know what your plans are for lunch and dinner – I'm assuming dinner will be relatively early given the need to be at the school by seven?"

Already savouring the steaming cheesy dish, Cate smiled at the wonderful taste. The last time she'd had soufflé for breakfast had been months ago when she'd taken the children to Paris for the weekend.

"Don't worry about lunch for any of us, Jack," she said. "We tend to eat on the run unless it's a holiday or a special occasion. Dinner tonight will need to be earlier, yes; we're all expected at Westminster by seven, and traffic at that time of night is going to be slow, so we'll need to leave by six-thirty. How does a quarter-to-six suit everyone?" she raised her eyebrows and checked for disagreement.

Mycroft had paused eating, his fork in the air, a look of considered thoughtfulness on his face.

"Don't think for a _second_ that you're escaping this one," Cate pointed her fork at him with a very specific look. "You've missed the last two and you're still in nobody's good books after last night," she looked sideways at Blythe and blinked fractionally.

Allowing a corner of his mouth to curve upwards, Mycroft looked rueful. "I recognise my good-standing has taken something of a battering and that I am required to do appropriate penance," he smiled to himself as he returned to the soufflé. "Of course I will accompany everyone to the school this evening and yes, my love, please order whatever manner of furniture you desire," he paused, lifting his eyes to meet their mirror image across the table. "And I will offer a full and complete explanation of my actions in the very near future," he said, speaking just for his daughter, who now held his gaze with an unwavering stare. "But in the meantime, please feel free to use the family credit card and extract whatever reparations you deem suitable," he took another mouthful of his appetising breakfast. "Which, naturally, goes for you too, Jules," he added, glancing at his son.

"Unrestricted use of the Holmes account?" Julius grinned mightily. "And me only wanting a couple of shirts."

"I'm sure you'll manage to struggle on and find a few other items," Cate's tone was dry and amused.

Jack coughed politely. "There are actually a few things I'd like to purchase for the kitchen and house, if that's acceptable," he said. "Nothing overly expensive, but some staples I'd prefer to have on hand, if that's okay?"

Her face reflecting deep inner thought, Cate stood and walked over towards a bank of small drawers. Rummaging around in the top one, she eventually drew out a small piece of plastic that she handed to him.

"Order anything you like at their Piccadilly store or online," she said, returning to her breakfast. "There's also a list somewhere of all the other shops with whom we have an account, so if you need anything for the house for the short time you're staying with us, then please feel free to use any of them."

Jack looked down at the duck-egg blue plastic card, complete with the Royal crest and the world-famous name.

"You have an account with Fortnum and Masons?" his voice rose slightly.

"Handy for all manner of things," Mycroft nodded. "If you're going there. You might pick up some more of my shoe polish from the gentleman's department? I seem to be running out of needful items all the time, these days."

"I shall make a list of everything necessary," Jack inhaled forcefully. "Anything you require at all, please let me know; I'd be delighted to organise everything while I'm here."

"And you can make more of these any time, if you like," Blythe made sure she hadn't missed any of the fluffy cheesy stuff. "Though I have no room for toast now. Sorry."

"It'll be my pleasure Miss Blythe," Jack Parrish smiled, his fingers wrapped tightly around the fabled blue card.

###

Consulting the list, Jack found he'd ticked off all but the last three items.

"I need to go to the wine department to order these last few things," he said. "And once that's out of the way, we can go and find some appropriate grown-up shirts and shoes for young Mr Holmes, after which we can call into Gower Street and collect your books, Miss Blythe."

"You've gone all Downton Abbey, you know," Blythe examined the wine labels on the nearest bottles. They were all from Provence and would have a smoky perfume. Though she had no palate yet for wine other than the occasional taste of champagne, Blythe already knew the scent and colour of all the wines her parents favoured. Whether the label proclaimed the contents were from South Africa, South Australia or the South of England, she already held a comprehensive wine-list in her head. It was a silly game she played but it might come in useful one day.

"Have I?" Jack turned, looking around for the display of clarets. "Force of habit, I guess," he said. "Ignore me; I'm sure it'll wear off sooner or later. Anyone seen the pinot noir varietals?"

"Over there," Jules pointed towards a display just inside the entrance to the wine department.

"Over where?" the tall blond followed Jules' pointed finger, turning his eyes towards the entranceway where a policeman was standing in fairly animated conversation with another of Fortnum and Mason's customers.

Blythe had never seen anyone go so pale so rapidly. Even Jack's lips turned ashen.

"I'll be over here for a bit," he muttered, his back suddenly towards the department's entrance as he became very keen on reading the small print on several cases of wine.

Jules and Blythe looked first at one another, then at Jack Parrish's resolutely turned back and then at the uniformed police officer.

Why on earth would their trainee butler be so utterly terrified of the authorities?


	5. Chapter 5

_The Interrogation – Tulip Lawson – Blackmail – The Questions Continue – A Simple Solution – Parents and Teachers – Simonson – Discovered._

###

They waited until they were in the cab heading back home before it began, 'it' being the twins' systematic and methodical annihilation of any and every attempt on Jack's part to divert their interest from the recent scene in the wine department of Fortnum and Masons.

Not quite sure how he ended up wedged between the two of them in the back of the taxi, Jack Parrish knew he was in deep trouble when both Holmes siblings turned to stare at him in some eerie, silent, symmetrical, ballet.

"Before we start, you should know that we are, in fact, both certified as high geniuses," Blythe spoke very gently, as if dealing with a young and frightened child. "We've also been trained by our father to detect a lie as soon as it breathes air."

"In addition to which, neither of us have the slightest compunction about grilling you relentlessly until we get the information we want," Jules grinned unnervingly. "Our uncle is a very skilled interrogator and we've learned everything he can teach us."

"Further," Blythe patted Jack on the arm in a kindly sort of way. "In case you were tempted to make a dash for it, our mother is an Hapkido black-belt and has ensured that the both of us are more than capable of handling any form of physical imposition which may come our way from any direction, no matter how unlikely," she smiled, dreamily.

"Plus, we're absolute experts in making up excuses for our teachers and we'll certainly be able to spot any dissembling from a mile off," Jules met his sister's eyes. "So tell us."

"What's dissembling?" Jack folded his arms and looked straight ahead.

"Yes, just like that," Blythe nodded. "Well done. Now, again. Tell us."

"Nothing to tell," Jack's eyes were resolutely front and centre.

"Lie number one," Jules smiled brightly. "Why are the police after you?"

"The police?" Jack frowned.

"Ah, so _not_ the police," Blythe sounded intrigued. "Then why did you try and hide when you saw the uniformed police officer in the doorway of the wine department?"

Jack folded his arms tighter. "Didn't."

"Lie number two," Jules looked sad and shook his head. "And you wanting so much to be a butler in some posh Home-Counties household," he sighed. "Such a shame."

"What's such a shame?" Jack turned to look at the boy who was almost as tall as he was.

" _Well_ ..." Blythe looked artless. "You _know_ how these things get out," she shrugged off-handedly. "Once the butler-recruiting agencies get to hear that you're a wanted man who lied to the children of a certain household to cover up his immoral and debauched past ..." her small cough was an understatement in elegance.

"You wouldn't?" Jack didn't know which of them to glare at first. He tried Jules.

Who blinked, lazily.

"You'd be _amazed_ to find out just how easy it was to get hold of the email addresses of the fifty-two registered butler-training and recruitment organisations in Britain," Blythe continued. "Just one little email saying the right words ..."

"Or even the wrong words," Jules agreed, nodding cheerfully.

"Especially those, yes," Blythe smiled back at her brother.

"And that, as they say, would pretty much be that," Jules looked sad. Then he raised his eyebrows in a singular expression from which even a total stranger would recognise Sherlock as his uncle, and met the blond man's grey-blue eyes. "So tell us," he said.

"I can't believe the two of you would do anything like the things you're saying," Jack's expression wasn't quite as confident as his words. "Couple of nice young people as you, from such a good home," he felt he was back on more solid ground.

"Oh dear, I was rather hoping we wouldn't have to go down this particular path, Jack," it was Blythe's turn to look sad as she met her sibling's gaze.

"Looks like he won't believe us without it, Sis," Jules glanced out at the buildings they were passing. "Best get on with it though."

"Hang on a second, get on with what?" Jack was starting to feel decidedly uneasy again. It was clear they had something up their collective sleeve, but it couldn't be all that bad, could it? After all, they were in a public taxi.

"Oh, very well," Blythe leaned back and closed her eyes. "You come from a good and probably landed family despite your attempts to conceal the fact," she began. "Your diction and vocabulary are of a type and level uncommon these days in any but the better class of educative establishment. Of course, you could have been educated overseas, but there's not a smidgen of an accent in any of your words that suggests such a possibility, _ergo_ , it makes sense to assume you went to a good school or schools right here in Britain," she paused, opening her eyes and passing the deductionary _baton_ to her brother.

"Which is where you experienced growing up with servants and, most especially, at least one though more likely _several_ butlers; the way you have taken so completely to various aspects of the role argues that this isn't something you've simply picked up from a few training sessions in a London class of wannabes, _no_ ," Jules shook his head. "You come from a family who had its own butlers, Jack. Individuals whom you respected very deeply and who probably reminded you of a time in your childhood which was golden and good."

"Hence the reason you find the prospect of being a proper butler in a big house so attractive, "Blythe jumped back in. "You felt safe in that particular period of time and you are trying to recapture the feeling."

"Which then makes the questions of _why_ someone with all the advantages of a good home and family and education would even be considering a career in domestic service in the first place," Jules looked openly curious. "Not that there's anything wrong with such a career, of course, but you would have naturally been exposed to all manner of opportunities and possibilities as you were growing up, so it really doesn't make a great deal of sense for you to want to do this unless there was another reason; something else that was driving you to take this particular road."

"Or perhaps you weren't driving _towards_ something," Blythe paused, considering, "But _away_ from something," she said, looking back to the blond man. "Something with which you no longer wish to have any association," she frowned. "Something in your life which has made you unhappy and wanting the security and peace of the only good time you can remember in your life when you were growing up," she added, softly.

"Who are you running from, Jack?" Jules looked a little worried, as if he had never intended to take a stroll down this particular path. "If it's not the police, then who is it? Tell us, I'm sure we can help; we'd really like to help."

Inhaling very deeply and slowly, Jack rested his head back against the top of the car seat. He knew this whole set up in the Holmes household had been entirely too good to be true. He'd have to offer his apologies to Mr Holmes and then make a swift and discreet departure. But these two were right, and besides, there was only so much running a man could do.

"I wasn't trying to hide from the police officer in the wine department," he exhaled a long sigh of release. "But the man with whom the police officer was talking."

"But why would you not want another Fortnum and Mason's customer to see you?" Blythe scowled in thought. It made no sense, unless ... unless there was prior acquaintanceship between them.

"You knew the man," she said, realising.

Jack laughed shortly but without humour. "The man was my father."

###

On the basis of numerous personal recommendations and several phone conversations, Cate had already narrowed down the choice of architect to two companies and she was leaning towards one of them who had done a great many refurbishments of listed Georgian properties. Though money, fortunately, was not the greatest issue here, Cate wanted an innovative solution to the problem of providing her two very distinctive offspring with the space and solitude they both needed. She and Mycroft had already agreed that the townhouse freehold would be made over to the twins in the future so that they would have both a place to live in London as well as being able to rent out the larger part of the house itself as a means of continued income, if that was what they wanted to do. So now, she was taking the first step in the greater plan that would ensure they each had a small but self-contained flat in which they could begin the next stage of their maturation.

It had been helpful that each of the twins, though similar in many ways, were also sufficiently if not diametrically different, that giving one the attic and one the cellar would not cause more problems than it solved.

There was the necessary space and there was the necessary money. All Cate needed now, was the necessary architect.

"And as you can see, Mrs Holmes," the immaculately groomed man in the immaculately groomed suit swanned over to a large wall-screen, "our firm has had great success over many years providing our clients with precisely the type of service you are discussing."

"I have some very particular requirements," Cate had already gone through quite a number of existing floorplans and blueprints; none of them were quite what she had in mind.

"Of course, madam," the man's shiny smile was beginning to feel ever so slightly sycophantic. "The firm of London and Nobles will be delighted to customise any of our existing apartment models, designed especially for the historical dwellings of our wonderful city."

"But I don't want one of your existing apartment models," Cate smiled sweetly back. "No matter how well they've been designed to meet the historic needs of this or any other city," she said. "As already indicated, I want something that not only fits within the frame of the building, but also meets some very particular prerequisites."

The sales representative didn't miss a beat.

"In which case, madam, I'll bring you one of our top-qualified architectural designers who will, I'm sure, be able to deal with your every inquiry," he beamed, walking sideways until he disappeared through a recessed door.

Cate made a face. This wasn't at all what she had imagined the place would be like. In her mind's eye, she had pictured a working factory environment, with old-fashioned drafts people hovering over long tables covered in stretches of white paper and detailed drawings. But apparently not any more. Everything today was done with technology and necessitated someone in a very pretty suit oozing insincerity. She wasn't the least bit impressed.

But this company had been so strongly recommended by a number of people in whose judgement she had great faith. And she had to admit, that some of the 'models' she'd seen were pretty good, even if they weren't exactly what she had in mind.

She sighed.

The recessed door opened again, and a dark-haired, woman in her late twenties came through carrying a slim black laptop, her free hand already outstretched. The woman smiled.

"Name's Tulip Lawson," she said, smiling some more. "Yes, awful to have in school, but I doubt you'll forget it. Shall we sit over here?" she suggested, pointing to some chairs beside a wide low table.

"Are you another sales person or are you actually an architect?" Cate sat, waiting to see which way this one would go. She didn't think she could stand any more obsequious nonsense.

"Definitely not sales," the newcomer laughed. "Have you just had the George treatment?" she laughed some more. "He's the son of the senior partner; he used to sell Bentleys but they laid him off and now he works here," Tulip rolled her eyes. "He can be a little over-enthusiastic."

Their gaze met in understanding.

"Your firm is well-recommended," Cate began. "But I'm not sure if I'm the sort of client you want; I have very specific requirements and I don't think they'll be met by something off-plan."

"Of course not," the dark-haired woman sounded serious. "And regardless of what George might have suggested, we always work to meet our clients' unique preferences. I've actually had a good think at all the photographs and measurements you've provided, and wondered if you'd like to have a look at my first concepts on the matter; perhaps you could tell me if I'm anywhere near what you had in mind?"

Opening the computer and turning it so that Cate had full view of the wide screen, the architect sat back and watched every expression as it crossed her potential client's face.

Flicking through several of the screens that each offered an architectural rendering of several possible options for both the attic and cellar arrangements, despite herself, Cate was reasonably impressed. All of the alternatives seemed to have taken most of her own concerns on board.

"I think you may have something there," she said, tapping the screen on one particular image before sitting back and looking thoughtful. "Not yet exact, of course, but you appear to have got my basic ideas in the right places," she paused. "So what happens now?"

"If you're interested in any of these, then the next step is for me, or any of our other partners if you'd prefer someone else, to come and spend a day at your house going over the very smallest details that no photograph can possibly provide," the young architect said. "Then we sit and talk with you to ensure we have every single thing that you need, although in some cases we may need to negotiate a compromise if we can't give you everything you want."

"And then?" Cate was feeling more reassured; at least this one sounded as if she knew what she was doing.

"And then, when everything has been detailed down to the number of cabinet- handles and the size of the last shelf in the smallest cupboard, we produce a unique design that will fit your specific needs and no other," Tulip smiled again. "But by that time, you'll already have a totally clear picture of what to expect, so unless there's any last minute problems, you should be feeling very confident in what you're going to get."

"And your company will work with any building firm we choose?"

"Naturally," the dark-haired woman smiled again. "We have enjoyed a productive relationship with a great many builders and suppliers in and around London, though we also have our own builders who can be guaranteed to complete on time as they'll have no other contract competing for their labour; something to think about, perhaps?"

"Possibly," Cate nodded, making up her mind. "When can you come to the house?"

"Me, or would you prefer to speak with a more senior partner?" Tulip didn't seem the slightest bit put out that she might not be considered sufficiently practised.

"If you produced these drawings," Cate smiled now, tapping the laptop again, "then I most definitely would like you to come along and tell us what else we could do with the spaces available."

"Excellent," pulling out her phone, the architect consulted her diary. "Usually this takes a couple of week to arrange, but I've had a cancellation for this Friday; any good, or is that too soon for convenience?"

"Friday would be marvellous," Cate nodded. "The children will be home from school early, so you can meet them and find out exactly what they want; they can communicate their needs far more specifically than I can."

Tapping a few keys on her mobile, Tulip Lawson nodded, pleased. "Friday, then."

###

The atmosphere in Mycroft's Whitehall office was tense, to say the least.

"I cannot believe you'd be so reckless as to risk your reputation with such an idiotic stunt, Sherlock!" Mycroft rubbed his brow with irritated fingers.

"And yet, no thanks to you, John and I have been able to provide you with vital information, and simultaneously circumvent a London-busload of red-tape," Sherlock sat, quite undisturbed at his brother's wrath. It would pass.

John rubbed his thigh, remembering the stun gun; depleted battery or not, the thing had still stung. "So just who is this James Devereux when he's at home, then?"

"Taser, John?" Mycroft's eyebrows lifted even higher as he turned back to face his sibling. "Not content with risking your own neck, you saw fit to drag Doctor Watson along on your imprudent escapade? And have him injured in addition to everything else? He's not as young as he used to be, Sherlock; we none of us are."

"Hey, watch who're you're calling not young," John stopped rubbing his leg. "And how did you know it was a Taser?"

Both Holmes men threw their medical associate a deeply pitying look.

"So," Sherlock returned to the matter in hand. " _Devereux_. Who is he and why is he attempting to have you made Baron of Esgair? More importantly, why are all the Queen's most senior advisors listening to him?"

"Will you not let this thing go, brother?" Mycroft sighed. "There is information on which even I must be silent."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he sat up straighter in his chair. " _Really?_ " he said. " _That_ serious?" he sat back in the upholstered leather and looked very thoughtful.

John looked slightly bewildered. "Who are we talking about now?" he asked, uncertain.

"Not one of those people on the Privy Council would support your bid for the barony," Sherlock pursed his lips as he spoke to his sibling. "As a Commoner, and given the nature of your position within the British Government, you lack the lineage, the breeding or heroic notoriety deemed essential for such a peerage," he said. "The only way you could possibly be considered a suitable bearer of the title would be by Royal Writ, something that, even today, must come directly from the Crown itself, _ergo_ , the final decision to offer this little prize to you has come from the Queen's hand and none other."

"I knew you and she were on nodding terms, Mycroft," John smiled, curious. "But I had no idea you were such good buddies."

The facial expression on the elder Holmes would have turned a lesser man to stone.

"My brother and Her Majesty may well be BFFs, John," Sherlock's eyes stared hard into his brother's face. "But not even _she_ would so lightly dismiss centuries of tradition and to bypass both the Privy Council and the Committee of Privileges in the House of Lords without some excessively good reason," he added. "To fly in the face of every English law and to turn a deaf ear to every naysaying voice?" he shook his head. "That must be costing her dear ... _so_ ," Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes burning now with the light of a real mystery. "What is forcing the Queen to ennoble you with a barony that you don't want and that she doesn't wish to give?"

" _Sherlock_ ..." Mycroft's voice held a distinctively warning note.

"And where does this James Devereux fit in?" John asked. "His name was on the letter we saw; he seems to be the one pushing for all this to happen."

Mycroft linked his fingers on the desk and closed his eyes but said nothing.

"Very well then, brother," Sherlock sat back in his own seat. "If you will not help us to help you, then I'll be forced to take steps in this investigation whether you wish them to be taken or not."

" _You will do no such thing_ ," Mycroft's anger moved his voice abruptly into the imperative. "You will do _nothing_ to bring any of this situation into the public domain; it is a _private_ thing and is to remain private, or there will be ... consequences."

"I _will_ do this, despite your apparent willingness to allow your family to suffer distress and public imposition," Sherlock's face reflected his own anger. "If _you_ won't act to protect Cate and the twins from the unsavoury ramifications of this situation, then I feel little compunction in going beyond your inexplicable quiescence and taking the matter into my own hands."

"And if this thing holds even the _slightest_ possibility that Cate and the kids might be caught in the fallout, then you know I'm not going to leave it either, Mycroft," John's solid voice was equally implacable.

The elder Holmes stared first at one, then the other, his face impassive, but his eyes brilliant with outraged indignation.

All of which suddenly departed as he relaxed, allowing his body to step back from the brink of provocation and dispute. He exhaled long and low, his shoulders easing as the outlandishness of the situation made itself clear. He could not possibly win this argument.

A small smile crept onto his mouth. "Ironic," he said, softly.

"Ironic how?" Sherlock looked confused, this sudden reversal of his brother's mental state disconcerting.

"Ironic that you should opt for blackmail as your _modus operandi_ ," he said, meeting his brother's eyes. "When that's precisely what's being done to Her Majesty."

###

"But the man had his back turned," Blythe sipped her tea at the kitchen table as both she and her brother watched Jack unpack the few things he'd actually brought home with him; the rest of the shopping booty being delivered the next morning.

Jack stopped what he was doing. "You couldn't recognise your own father from the back?" he asked.

"Point taken," Jules watched, fascinated as their trainee butler began setting out small cartons of olives and marinated artichokes. "Are we having antipasto for dinner?"

"Your mother said she had planned for an Italian dinner this evening, yet you all have to leave relatively early to get to your school by seven, so I'm going to give everyone antipasto to begin, then an asparagus risotto, followed by Tiramisu and coffee," Jack nodded. "That should see you through the rest of the night without being overly heavy on the brain," he said.

"May I help with the preparations?" Jules was already washing his hands, giving Blythe a very specific look over his shoulder. She nodded back.

"You don't think making dinner is beneath you?" the tall blond smiled at the almost equally tall teenager.

Jules grinned, taking the apron Jack handed him. "Mum has made sure the both of us are as equally equipped in the domestic sciences as we are in the applied and intellectual ones," he laughed. "What do you want me to do with this feta?"

Leaving Jack to carry on with dinner preparations and Jules to carry on with their investigation, Blythe ran upstairs to her room, closing the door firmly behind her. Throwing herself on the bed, she fished out her mobile, laying it on the bedcovers in front of her and just looked at it for a few moments.

Reaching a decision, she lifted it and dialled a speed-number. Within a couple of seconds, it was ringing. A voice answered.

"Hello Landry," she said, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.

There was an answering response that made her smile wider.

"Are you going to be there tonight?" she asked. "My entire family's going to be in attendance."

There was another round of whispery sounds.

"Oh, sorry to hear that, but not totally unexpected that your father won't be there," Blythe shrugged. "He never has been, has he?"

There was yet more chittering at the far end of the conversation, at which Blythe grinned happily, settling down for a nice long chat. She wasn't actually being alone with him, nor in any situation that might cause either of them trouble and Blythe decided she was still mostly on the side of the angels as far as her father's unreasonable _diktat_ went.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the makings of a classic platter of antipasto was taking shape, with chargrilled mushrooms and sweet potato, even some charred aubergine that even now was crisping nicely beneath the small grill.

"My father can be a bit of a pain sometime," Jules busied himself setting out a small dish of sardines. "But at least he's always been around. When did yours leave?"

"Oh, dad was usually off on one venture or another," Jack trimmed the asparagus, breaking off the tips and dropping the stalks in boiling salted water. "He was always telling us about how the next big deal or the next really important discovery in the Transvaal or in Australia or somewhere equally exotic would be the making of the family and return us all to our proper place in society," the blond paused, his face a rueful _moue_. "Everyone's got a different idea of what they want," he smiled philosophically and shrugged.

"So what was he doing in Fortnum and Masons this morning, do you think?" Jules kept his head down, his entire attention seemingly fixed on the tiny fresh figs he was halving.

Jack turned to look at the boy's innocuous expression, he was still asking an awful lot of questions, but it seemed to be a normal discussion for him; it was already plain that both twins were exceptionally inquisitive individuals.

"I have no idea, nor am I particularly interested," Jack's tone was detached. "My father and I parted ways several years ago when it became clear he was never going to accept my career choices," the trainee butler wiped his hands and came over to watch what Jules was doing with a dozen translucent slices of prosciutto. "Right then, what's happening here ... roses, eh?" Jack grinned. "I'll make a chef out of you yet," he laughed, slapping the boy on the shoulder. "Now tell me, young Padawan, what kind of wine should be served with a Mediterranean repast?"

###

"Typical Mycroft," Sherlock poured boiling water into the teapot in the kitchen of 221B. "Has to play up the mysterious in everything; why couldn't he have simply said the Queen was being blackmailed?"

"Possibly because he'd been forced to agree _not_ to tell anyone?" John accepted his mug and blew on the contents. "Unlike us, your brother really does prefer to stay mostly within the law ..."

"If it suits him," Sherlock scoffed. "And the instant it doesn't, you can be sure he'll do whatever it is he feels will get the job done as effectively as possible and hang the consequences."

"Then why aren't we leaving him to sort this situation out by himself?" John raised his eyebrows. "Mycroft is hardly an intellectual slouch now, is he?"

"Because this time the consequences involve not only Cate, but Blythe and Jules as well," Sherlock put down his tea and looked sombre. "When it was only him, or even he and Cate, things were different."

"Yeah, you're not wrong there," John nodded slowly. As honorary uncle to the twins, and feeling more like an honorary _parent_ at times, he would not support any action that offered risk to either of the next Holmes generation. "So what are we going to do about it?"

"Simple, John," Sherlock leaned back and linked his fingers in his lap. "We shall ascertain the nature of the blackmail and the identity of the blackmailer, then remove whatever materials form the basis of that blackmail, return or destroy them and save the Queen from forcing Mycroft into accepting a peerage he does not want."

"Simple, eh?" John grinned. His friend was as mad as ever.

"There is one minor speck in the ointment, however," the younger Holmes screwed up his face.

"Which is?" John waited. There was something coming he wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

"My brother must be kept entirely in the dark."

###

"Excellent choice of Chianti," Mycroft nodded at Jack, impressed by the younger man's knowledge of wines. A superb Tuscan _Classico_ , even Blythe had found favour with its fruity qualities though it was still on the dry side for her taste.

"All down to your son's knowledge of your wine cellar, sir," Jack deftly cleared the plates. "I've not yet had an opportunity to familiarise myself with your entire inventory, but I did notice some excellent labels," the blond man smiled as he poured coffee. "There are a number of cold viands left; if anyone wishes for a light supper following the school visit, I'd be happy to put something together later."

"Goodness, no," Cate enjoyed the rich smoky coffee. "If anyone's hungry when we get back," she looked directly at Jules, "then he can get something himself. You've done a fabulous job so far Jack, so feel free to do whatever you want to do for the rest of the evening."

"Thank you, Mada ... Mrs Holm ... _Cate_ ," Jack inclined his head. "There are one or two things that require my attention."

"The car will be outside at precisely six-thirty," Mycroft consulted his Hunter. "If anyone needs to change into their school uniform, they have a little less than ten minutes to undertake the transformation," he smiled as Blythe rolled her eyes.

"If we must," she sighed mournfully, getting up from her chair. Uniforms were so boring.

"Probably for the best, Darling," Cate smiled. "But it's not for ever."

"Feels like forever," Blythe left the dining table and followed her brother up to their respective rooms.

"Anyone we need to speak with specifically tonight, my love?" Mycroft finished his coffee and looked mildly interested.

"Not really," Cate shook her head. "There've not been any problems to my knowledge, and both their results have all been A-plus all the way through, so I would imagine tonight will be like the other visits; more of a formality than anything really vital."

"I'm sure you're right," he stood, holding out his hand. "Shall we go and beard the lions in their den?"

" _Twins_ ," Cate shouted upstairs as Mycroft helped her on with her coat. "Leaving now." The sound of two pairs of feet running down the stairs ending with both her children standing beside her and she suddenly saw that they were nearly grown now; not merely in the physical sense, but they were far in advance of their years and really more independent that she had consciously allowed herself to recognise. Cate's throat grew a little tight as she realised her children were already crossing the threshold of adulthood.

"In the car then," she murmured, waving them out the door, immediately attracting Mycroft's sudden glance as he caught an unexpected quality in her voice.

Looking into his wife's face, he saw the merest glint of tears. Understanding exactly the reason behind Cate's suspiciously bright eyes, he hugged her to him. "They'll still be around for a while longer, old thing," he whispered into her hair.

"Old thing be damned," Cate touched his lips with her own. "Let's go, you."

The trip to the school was swifter than anticipated, though there was already the beginning of a crowd in the main hall as they walked in.

"Advise me, Offspring," looking around at the small clumps of parents standing amid the muted laughter of roaming teens, Mycroft found himself to be a an excellent humour despite the various problems resting on his shoulders. "With whom would you least like us to speak this evening?"

"That would be Mr Simonson, I expect," Jules waved to one of his friends.

"Really?" Mycroft sounded surprised. "Your Latin teacher? I thought Latin was one of the better subjects for both of you?"

"It is, of course, Daddy," Blythe entered the conversation grudgingly. "But apparently Mr Simonson thinks we can do better," her tone made her opinion clear on _that_ particular assessment.

"Then I shall be sure to have a chat with that worthy," Mycroft smiled mildly.

Cate raised an eyebrow; she knew that smile. "Be nice," she said. "They need school for a few more years yet."

About to add that she was going to look for the twins' Head of House, Cate found herself being addressed by a large, florid woman with greying hair and piercing dark eyes.

"Oh my _dear_ Catherine," Leonora Costigan swept her into a practised greeting, shaking hands even before Cate knew who it was. "I've been so looking forward to meeting with you this evening."

Doctor Costigan was Head of Charter House and the twins' own special supervisor. As she looked around for backup, Cate saw that not only had Mycroft vanished, probably in search of the endangered species of Latin teacher that was now Mr Simonson, but both her children had taken the opportunity to disappear as well.

There was nothing for it. "Hello, Leonora," Cate smiled. "Tell me my two are doing as well as they can and I'll be happy to leave you in peace."

"Oh but my dear," the woman frowned and shook her head slightly, "That's why I so much wanted to speak with you," she said.

"Why?" Cate heard the note of concern in the other woman's words. " _Aren't_ they doing as well as they should be?"

Looking vexed, Lenora Costigan shook her head again. "I'm afraid they aren't," she added. "Not anywhere near it."

###

Mycroft had located his prey. A thin, reedy kind of a man, slightly stooped and the type one might expect to wear tweed suits the year round, with badly matching checked shirts and ties. Possibly smoking a pipe, or at least using one to illustrate some arcane linguistic conundrum.

"Mr Simonson," Mycroft shook the unsatisfyingly limp hand that was gingerly extended.

"Mr Holmes," Simonson nodded, his Scottish accent faint but still discernible, his voice unnecessarily loud, if truth were told. "No doubt you'll be wanting to discuss the sad efforts of your progeny?"

"I most certainly would like to do so," Mycroft's voice was no less assertive. "Shall we find somewhere a little more private, perhaps?"

"Of course," Simonson sounded vaguely smug. "I can understand you not wanting for everyone to hear," he pointed to a nearby door. "Shall we?"

"So, Mr Simonson," Mycroft began as he closed the door behind them, the room a small classroom, dark and empty but for several rows of desks and chairs. "Tell me what I need to know."

Standing up straight, his stoop vanished, Simonson met Mycroft's direct gaze.

"Nothing to report, sir," he said quickly. "As directed, I've made sure everyone understands why I'm having more than usual to do with your children; though the excuse of their Latin being weak was never very good to begin with and even less so now," he smiled a little. "But they've taken it all in good stead, I must say."

"No approaches from Devereux? No unexpected strangers around the place?"

"It's a moderately large school, sir," Simonson looked pensive. "There are bound to be some strangers, but none that I've seen having anything to do with your two, although ... there has been Devereux's boy, Landry Banister."

"My daughter has informed me about young Mr Banister," Mycroft inhaled heavily. "I've told her to have nothing more to do with the boy at the present time."

"And you're sure that'll be enough?" Simonson smiled. "I have teenagers of my own," he added. " _Telling_ them is not always effective."

"Which is why you're here," Mycroft assessed his employee, an agent who had worked for him for several years now, though never in so close a connection. "Let me know the instant anything changes; I'll not have a finger laid on them."

"Of course, Mr Holmes," Simonson nodded. "Anything else I need to know at this point?"

"Just maintain the façade a little longer," Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "With luck, this will all be over very soon."

###

Blythe made sure both her parents had vanished into the crowd before she walked smartly towards the students' Lower Common Room. It was far enough away from the main stream of things tonight to be considered semi-private. The door was, of course, locked, but that made little difference; she had been picking locks since she was five and this one hardly gave her pause. Leaving the door fractionally ajar, Blythe walked over to the nearest group of couches and sat in the dark, waiting, her eyes on the entrance.

Only minutes later, it swung inwards, revealing a lanky teenager with a mop of fair hair.

" _Bly?_ "

"Landry," Blythe stood. "We don't have long, but I wanted to see you for this conversation. I couldn't say this on the phone; I wanted you to hear this face to face."

"What?" the blond boy grinned in the dimness. "Sounds ominous."

"My father wants me to stay away from you," she stood directly in front of him, searching for the focus of his eyes. "He told me to have no contact with you, though I have no idea why."

Landry frowned. "Me neither," he muttered. "Jules hasn't said anything to him, has he?"

"Jules?" it was Blythe's turn to frown. "What would Jules have to say about us? We're just friends; what's to say?"

Landry grinned, his white teeth glinting in the faint light. "Just friends?" he said. "You sure about that?"

Blythe felt her heart beat harder in her chest at the tone in his voice. There was a note of ... something that made her pulse race a little faster. Her face felt warm.

"Aren't we friends?" she asked, her voice far more whispery that she intended.

"Oh yes," the tall blond's grin widened. "Very good friends, I'd say," he added, dipping his head, brushing his lips against hers.

Blythe felt her heart stop. It was as if her body had forgotten how to work. Or breathe. Or anything. Everything tingled.

 _Oh_.

The door of the Common Room swung wide open, a tall man silhouetted in the doorway, his had fumbling for the light switch.

Blinking in the sudden brightness, Blythe shielded her eyes.

"So _here_ you are," the man's voice sounded oddly triumphant, as if he'd found something for which he'd been seeking.

Landry turned slowly, his eyes widening. "Oh, my god," he murmured. "It's _you_."

"Indeed it is," the man swept into the room, his elegant coat swaying around him, the scent of his cologne rich and pervasive in the closed air. He looked between the two of them. "Aren't you going to introduce me?" his smile was a fraction too brilliant, the light in his eyes a degree too bright.

Turning back to meet Blythe's gaze, Landry's face mirrored his surprise.

"Bly," he said, searching for the right words. "This is my father, James Devereux."


	6. Chapter 6

_Tea and Sympathy – A Meeting – Unexpected Developments – DCI Lestrade – Best for the Best – No Mercy – Like Father, Like Son.  
_

#

#

Allowing herself to be drawn over to a small table with chairs at one side of the main hall, just like several dozen other small tables where conversations between teachers and parents were already underway, Cate was puzzled but not yet alarmed. The twins were not doing well? But that made absolutely no sense at all. Both their report cards contained nothing but 'A's across the board; their attendance was exemplary and she knew that, even though they had their sarcastic moments, they would be at least as polite as any of the other students. Nor had she been advised that her children were anything other than sociable or willing to help at school events, though their assistance was usually behind the scenes or, in Jules' case, in the _painting_ of the scenes. Thus, to be told something was seriously wrong waved a number of concerning flags, but not yet red ones.

"What on earth are you trying to tell me, Leonora?" Cate sank into a chair, her eyes never leaving the older woman's face.

"Exactly as I said, my dear," Doctor Costigan sat down opposite, sighed, and shook her head. "Neither of your two are learning anything much at all from us, and I have no reason to believe the situation will change in the foreseeable future."

"But _why?_ " Cate felt her mind whirling as it sought any possible reason or rationale for such a problem.

"Because they have already learned everything this school can give them," Leonora lifted her eyebrows and smiled, a little sadly. "They were far beyond their years when they arrived; I think we all knew that, but they were so precocious and special that we, that is to say, _I_ , had hoped we could at least keep their minds busy and productive," the woman shook her head again, more slowly this time. "But to keep them here now would be more than a waste," she met Cate's troubled gaze. "They need a much more demanding intellectual regimen. They should be at university."

" _University?_ They're barely fourteen."

Shrugging lightly, Leonora Costigan produced a small USB, pushing it across the table. "Here's a list of every school and university in Europe which run special programs for especially gifted and advanced students," she said. "It's not a terribly long list, and some of them may already have students in them as young as your two, but for the childrens' sake, you really do need to consider enrolling them in something far more demanding than a secondary education level, no matter how good the school might be," Costigan sighed again. "It's been lovely having them here, and I wish we had the wherewithal to keep them learning, but we simply don't," she said. "My recommendation is that they stay on until the end of this term, at which point they should be encouraged to enter a more suitable learning environment, which offers them a real chance to learn and grow, and to develop those wonderful brains of theirs at a pace and to the depth they both should have."

Cate felt all the energy had just been sucked from her entire body. How had she missed this? "Has any damage been done, do you think?" she wondered. "Neither of them have really complained about anything, you know," she said, thinking back over the last several months.

"And they certainly should have been," Leonora was nodding now. "They're simply too well-mannered to make a fuss, but I'm almost certain they've been adding to the standard academic schedule with their own extra-curricular projects, simply to keep themselves amused."

"I've never heard them complain about being bored," Cate thought some more, "but then, they've almost always got their heads in a book or an experiment or some sort of activity ..." she paused, realising this was precisely what the tutor was saying.

It was a lot to take in.

"Very well," Cate smiled, persuaded, though still a little staggered. "I'll speak to Mycroft tonight and we'll look at the options you've given us," she examined the USB before dropping it into her coat pocket. "If you would say nothing to anyone until we've had an opportunity to discuss this with Blythe and Jules and see what they want to do, that would be most helpful."

"Of course, my dear," Leonora Costigan smiled again, relieved that she hadn't been called upon to be any more persuasive than necessary. Some parents were not terribly interested in discovering their children needed to be moved into a different place of learning; for some, it was all just a bit too much effort. "Now, shall we have some tea?"

###

Blythe felt a chill wave wash over her. Being caught with Landry was bad enough, but being caught with Landry by his _father_ was not something she'd planned to have happen tonight.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr Devereux," she smiled politely, offering him her hand. "Landry and I are in the same class for several subjects."

The older man smiled, though it was more white teeth and the general _impression_ of smiling. There was little about the act that made her feel smiled-at.

"Miss Holmes," he shook her hand, apparently he already knew of her. "How nice to meet you finally; Landry has told me so much about you."

Landry rolled his eyes.

"I must be going," Blythe paused briefly, then offered a circumspect smile. "I'm here with my parents and they'll expect me to be around," she turned. "Goodbye, Landry," she said. "I doubt I'll be seeing you for a while."

"But _wait_ , Bly," Landry turned with her as she headed for the door. "You can't mean to leave things just like that?" he asked, his voice full of concern. "You should at least tell me about the situation so we can look at this like adults."

She had no wish to engage in any serious level of private conversation with James Devereux in the room; she paused again, looking directly into Landry's eyes, seeing the shadows of many unspoken things. "Friday afternoon, then," she said, softly. "After lunch, before I go home. I'll meet you here."

And she was gone.

###

Mycroft rejoined Cate just as she was accompanying Jules into one of the large art-studios the school boasted. Though many of the nation's political and religious leaders had attended Westminster, what was not so well known a fact was that also had a number of Britain's finest contemporary painters. The Arts were well espoused at this school, one of the reasons that, despite its religious underpinnings, Cate had been happy for the twins to enrol here in the first place; she had wanted to ensure they did not neglect the Humanities for the Sciences.

Jules had blossomed, or, at least, his artistic leanings had.

Their son had apparently taken to the creative arts in much the same way as his mother, and they were on their way to see his latest portfolio for themselves; he rarely brought any work home these days and Cate had wondered why.

Opening the wide double-doors, Jules looked unusually self-conscious, as if he hadn't really expected _both_ of his parents to be _so_ interested.

"So where is your work?" Cate looked around the walls and the various student display boards scattered across the room. A very dark piece standing on an easel near the centre of the large studio caught her eye; like the night sky, staring out into space. The abstract nature of the oil on canvas made her want to stare into the vortex and ponder the infinite. Whoever painted this knew exactly what they were doing.

"You like it?" Jules sounded questioning but not overly optimistic.

"This is yours?" Mycroft assessed the expression on his son's face before turning his eyes back to the painting.

"This is very good, sweetheart," Cate hadn't taken her eyes away from the thing. It kept drawing her in, making her wonder where the lights went when they had faded from the view of the audience. The sense of perspective was extraordinary. "Really, very good."

Julius grinned, pleased. "Now you see why I'd like as much decent light in the attic if I can get to live up there," he said. "I like working with a dark palette but you can't see the dark unless you have the right amount of light."

A truism that might be applied to any number of things, Mycroft realised, though Jules had probably not intended it as such.

"What else have you done, my love?" Cate wanted to see it all now; her boy had a distinct eye and she wanted to see what else he'd got to show them. If it was anything like this initial piece, then the Holmes family might be welcoming its first professional artist.

There were several other pieces, but the one that grabbed Mycroft in an almost visceral way was a life-size, charcoal-and-chalk drawing of the side-view of an unknown sitter. Only the neck, shoulder and side down to the hip had been depicted, but the strength of the drawing, as well as the three-dimensional solidity of the thing made it feel as if he could reach out and physically seize hold of the form. As before, this was a very dark but uncannily seductive vision and was easily as good as anything his mother had produced.

"If this is what you eventually decide to pursue as a career, Jules," Mycroft wondered if his son would allow him to hang the drawing in his office. "Know that you will have the support of both of us," he said, laying the fingers of one hand on Cate's shoulder. "This is truly excellent work."

"Maybe," Julius shrugged. "There's so many things that interest me right now, I'm not really sure which way to go."

"There's no rush," Mycroft smiled, his gaze meeting a pair of hazel eyes almost at the same level as his. "You have years yet to consider your future."

The sudden tension of Cate's shoulder beneath his touch was fractional but obvious and Mycroft looked at her inquiringly.

"Later," she said, quietly, the smallest shake of her head making it clear that whatever she had to say was for his ears alone. He squeezed her shoulder gently. _Message received_.

"Where's Blythe?" Cate was already headed towards the studio door. "I need to make sure we see anything she wants us to see before we leave this evening."

"Last I saw, she was heading down to the ..." Jules halted his words as he realised that his sister's destination might not be the one their father would have preferred her to take.

Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft said nothing, but the question was clear enough.

"Towards the, ah ..." Jules paused, fixing his eyes on the doorway.

"So _here_ you are," Blythe grinned, hanging onto the doorframe and looking between them all. "I go to the loo and find you've all vanished when I get back to the main hall. I wanted you to see something of mine too, now that Jules has bored you all into a coma with his daubs."

" _Daubs_ ," Jules' tone was withering as he watched Blythe's expression. He knew damn well where she'd gone and why, yet despite the painfully obvious fact she possessed no artistic appreciation _whatsoever_ , her secret was safe with him.

Taking her father's hand, Blythe led the small family group along a brief maze of old corridors and past an apparently infinite number of classroom doors, before pushing one open and ushering them all inside. It was a straightforward classroom, with a number of round tables scattered throughout, each serving as a hub for several chairs. A series of three enormous whiteboards stretched across the longest wall.

Ensuring all the lights were on, Blythe took Mycroft's hand again and pulled him towards the centre panel. A large section of the shiny white board had been carefully masked off with a sheet of drawing paper and bits of sellotape.

"Are you ready?" she asked, grinning up at him in exactly the same way her mother did when she was about to reveal something incredibly exciting.

"Fire away," Mycroft smiled, his daughter's enthusiasm infectious. Jules grinned; he knew what was coming.

With great theatrical flair, Blythe pulled the concealing paper away. " _Et, voila!_ " she announced, pointing towards several lines of numbers and equations written neatly on the board at eye-level.

Stepping forward, both parents examined the simple black lettering.

To Cate, this was far too complex for her long-confessed numeric limitations. Getting essential arithmetic to go the way she wanted it to go was about as good as she would ever be for her, and she knew it. But it didn't stop her from appreciating the elegance of the deceptively simply lines of intricate mathematics, beautifully and almost lovingly scribed on the board.

Though delving deep into theoretical math had not been on his agenda for a number of years now, Mycroft was easily able to recognise these quadratic algorithms as being significantly advanced, far _too_ advanced in fact, for even someone as bright as Blythe so obviously was. As he studied the foundation of the problem, he recognised prime numbers and clusters ... number theory that was on the edge of familiarity. Where had he seen this before? He racked his brain.

"This is Landau's Second Problem," he breathed, nonplussed. "The twin-prime conjecture."

"I haven't got it anywhere near right yet," Blythe admitted, pointing to the several question marks at the end of the last two equations. "But every time I have another go at it, I seem to be making tiny steps forward. Do you like it? The name of the problem attracted me. I did it for you both," she smiled, linking her arms into those of her parents.

"You and your sums," Jules hadn't forgiven her the earlier assessment of his paintings.

"I have only an idea of how clever this is," Cate hugged her daughter to her side. "So you'll have to tell me, darlings. This looks horribly difficult stuff and I'm not sure whether I should be amazed or shocked."

"I feel the former adjective is merited rather more than the latter," Mycroft took a deep breath and stood back from the whiteboard. "Though truthfully, I'm not quite sure which is the most apposite."

"Well, since it's not yet finished, it's all moot, in any case," Blythe grabbed an eraser and with a single swipe, dispatched the bulk of the details into oblivion.

Though he knew she would have the details carefully husbanded in her memory, such a brutal act of erasure made Mycroft catch his breath. He was still stunned at the fact of his daughter's ability, now doubly-so at her pragmatism. It was all a little much to take in.

"Home then, clan," Cate shepherded her brood towards the door, reaching back to catch Mycroft's hand as he stood, still staring at the blank space on the whiteboard where ghostly equations hovered before his eyes. "Come, my love; we have things to discuss," she said, pulling him unresistingly after her.

###

"So let me get this straight," Greg Lestrade rubbed a tired hand across his face. Only a handful of years left before retirement, and the DCI was still amazed that he could still be amazed at the requests thrown at his head by the consulting detective. "You want me to authorise you to access any and all police records on this guy Devereux, not only in Britain, but also via Interpol, with the option of tapping into both the South African _and_ Australian criminal records databases?" he paused. " _Why?_ "

"We can't really tell you," John winced slightly, knowing that to ask such blind faith even of their old friend, was unfair in the extreme.

"Devereux is trying to get Mycroft out of the way in order to stop my brother interfering with something underhand, but your summary, though vague, more or less covers the situation, Chief Inspector, yes," Sherlock nodded and continued sipping his tea, as if asking for private access to international criminal records was a mundane matter that ranked on par with buying an evening newspaper.

"And we need access in such a way that Mycroft cannot possibly get wind of any of it," John added, frowning at the younger Holmes. They'd promised Mycroft not to breathe a word of this beyond the three of them. He sat back in his aged and comfortable armchair. "It's critical we keep him out of this."

"Right, so, hang on then," Lestrade put his cup down and gathered his wits about him. "So then, right ... so not only are you expecting me to get you unauthorised access to some of the most sensitive databanks _in the world_ , but you expect me to somehow accomplish this miracle without triggering any of the alarm bells or warning flags littered throughout all of these systems for exactly the purpose of alerting people at the top of any unauthorised intrusion?" Greg looked at the faces of both men staring at him to be quite sure this was, in fact, the general expectation and that he hadn't got everything confused with, oh, maybe the end of days, or something.

"And by 'at the top', I'm actually meaning your _brother_ , one of the cleverest individuals in any of the British security services, _who probably designed every single one of these alarm bells and bright red wavy flags?_ "

"No need to get into a flap, Lestrade. All you have to do is authorise my entry into the local system," Sherlock sighed and looked jaded. "I can manage everything from that point on, and you need have no worries that I shall be able to circumvent all the necessary security protocols in order to achieve our objective. It doesn't matter who designed them; our goal is critical."

"Which is what, precisely?" Greg knew that if he did this and any of it came out, his retirement would be a lot sooner than later.

"We, _ah_ , we _really_ can't tell you," John spoke now with quite some hesitation. "But it's something of critical national importance and if we don't find out some way to locate and neutralise this chap, then it's all going to hit the fan and ... _well_ ..."

"The Queen is being blackmailed and Mycroft thinks he can solve this internally within his department and office," Sherlock announced. "Which he cannot, of course, but you know my brother, Lestrade; always too conceited to appreciate his own failings."

 _Something that both brothers shared_ , Greg stared across at John.

"This true?" he asked. "Are the royals involved?"

Taking a moment to scowl blackly at his friend, John looked back at the silver-haired man and nodded, reluctantly. "Yeah," he said. "It's all true."

And Mycroft would have their collective arses in the clink before they could count to ten if he ever discovered what they were doing.

"So your brother has told you to leave off; that he has everything under control, despite which, you're still going to go ahead and do your thing anyway?"

Sipping his tea, Sherlock smiled politely. "Your point being?"

"Someone's trying to get Mycroft made into a baron, if that's any help," John emptied his cup and tried a bit of levity. "Play your cards right and they'll make you a Superintendent at the very least."

"They offered me Super five years ago," Lestrade smiled easily. "I didn't want it then and I don't want it now, though if I had taken it, at least I wouldn't be in _this_ sort of a mess anymore."

"And what sort of a mess is this, then, Chief Inspector?" Sherlock's eyes watched the older man carefully. It sounded very much as if ... _ah_. He smiled into his cup.

"The sort of mess where you just know I'm going to get you exactly what you want because I cannot bear the idea of what might happen if I _didn't_ ," Greg sat back and puffed out his cheeks in principled defeat. "But I suppose I should be asking you who's blackmailing Her Majesty and what it's all about," his tone was uneasy. The minute he knew something factual, he was bound by both law and his own personal sense of ethics to act upon it.

John looked agonised. "We really can't ..." he shook his head, turning his eyes to Sherlock, warningly.

Who sighed, theatrically. "No, apparently, we can't," he grumbled.

"Well, thank Christ for that," Greg finished his tea.

###

It wasn't really all that late when his temporary family returned from the school. Despite Cate's recommendation that he prepare nothing in the way of supper, Jack had found himself at something of a loose end, unable to relax until he'd spoken personally with Mr Holmes about the incident in Fortnum and Masons earlier in the day. He had no wish to stay in this house with such a remarkable group of people under any but the most straightforward of circumstances. Meeting everyone in the hall, he assisted Cate and Blythe with their coats, before announcing that a light supper in the kitchen awaited anyone who was interested. Both twins grinned and dashed off.

"I've also made some tea, Mada ... Mrs Holm ... _Cate_ ," he said. "There was a new blend of Earl Grey that I've wanted to test for some time," he added. "Would you and Mr Holmes care for a cup?"

"Actually, that would be lovely," Cate patted his arm. "I'll just change my shoes and then I'll be down. It's very thoughtful of you."

Putting Mycroft's coat on a hanger and placing it inside one of the hallway cupboards, Jack caught his employer's eye. "Might I have a brief word, sir?" he asked.

"Of course," Mycroft indicated the door to his office, his brow creasing at the unmistakable note of concern in the younger man's voice. "Is there a problem?" Unsure where to begin, Mycroft indicated a chair. "Sit down, there's a good chap," he said. "It can't be that bad, surely? Though if you've done damage to any of my wife's best porcelain, you may have to weather that particular storm by yourself."

"I saw my father this morning when I was out shopping with the children," Jack rushed the words out. "He's back in London and neither of us expected him to be, _so_ I thought I should tell you and then pack my case and go."

" _Go?_ Why go?" Mycroft sat himself at his desk. "Did your father see you?"

"I don't think so," Jack Parrish shook his head as he thought back. "He was in conversation with a police officer and had his back to us the entire time, but _sir_ ..." the tall blond looked up, clearly uncomfortable. "You made it clear when you hired me that it wasn't just for my butlering skills that you wanted me here, though, to be honest, you did say your family was increasingly in need of assistance with the household management ..."

"A fact which has not changed in the least, Jack," Mycroft linked his fingers before him on the desk. "Here for only a matter of hours and I am already able to see the differences you have been able to make for us, no _no_ ," he lifted a hand and shook his head. "You cannot possibly think of leaving just yet. Now that you've alerted me to your father's presence in London, I shall take steps accordingly, but you must not think of leaving on that basis alone," he paused, meeting the blond's grey eyes. "Unless there were some other reason you wished to leave? Something to do with the children, perhaps?"

"No," Jack grinned and looked down at his hands. "Your family is refreshingly direct and approachable, though the young ones can be a little overwhelming both together."

"They seem to like you, which I take as a recommendation," Mycroft sounded amused. "Though you may find their admiration to be a heavy responsibility at times," he smiled fleetingly. "I realise more clearly after tonight, that my children are exceptional individuals who will accept only the best from themselves and those around them," he raised his eyebrows, his sight inwardly directed. "The best for the best," he looked somewhat pensive.

"Then, if you're sure it's alright for me to continue here for a while longer, sir, I'll be glad and happy to do so," Jack stood, a weight clearly gone from his shoulders.

"Delighted to hear it," Mycroft stood also. "Now did you say something about tea?"

###

It was late. Jack had finally been persuaded to leave the kitchen for the night, and the twins had long gone to their beds. The house was silent and Cate sat up in bed with her arms folded, watching Mycroft as he prepared himself for sleep.

"And so, Leonora recommended we send them to an advanced learner's program at a university," she finished. "She gave me a list of every school in Europe who ran such a thing, though she said the list wasn't all that long."

Mycroft was in the bathroom. It sounded like he was shaving.

"Do you have an early meeting?" Cate wondered out loud. It wasn't something he usually did at night unless he had to leave very early in the morning.

"Not tomorrow," he called back, the sound of water running as he cleaned his teeth.

"So, what do you think?" she asked, as the sounds of her husband's ablutions ended. "About Leonora Costigan's suggestion?"

"Not terribly surprised," swinging his pyjama jacket over his head until both arms slid into the sleeves, Mycroft walked around the bed to his side, pulling the pillows up against the headboard and rummaging around for his reading glasses. "It's what Sherlock and I did, after all."

Cate was surprised. This was the first she'd heard of the event.

"You and Sherlock entered university before you were eighteen?" she asked, fascinated. "Why did you never tell me?"

"It wasn't of any great importance," Mycroft peered at her over the tops of the small black frames. "I was accepted into Magdalene College at Oxford just after my fifteenth birthday, and Sherlock entered Corpus Christi about a month after his sixteenth. He was supposed to go to Balliol, but his interview didn't go terribly well, as I recall."

Cate felt all sorts of emotions swirl around her head. She had known from the very start of her relationship with Mycroft that the intellect of both brothers was frighteningly high, shockingly so, at times. But she'd had no idea that it had made itself so obvious at so young an age.

"My darling wife," Mycroft smiled down at her. "Your children are brilliantly clever individuals; did you not imagine this might happen?"

It hadn't. Not really.

"I knew they are very advanced and all their tests and exams and all the behavioural stuff has always pointed to them both being exceptional," she said, evenly. "But I never imagined that it ... that this ... would be so soon," she paused. "They're too young to go to university."

Dropping the report he was skimming, Mycroft removed his glasses and rolled over towards her. "I was only a year older."

"You were never that young," she smiled at him a little wistfully, pushing a curl of hair back from his forehead. "We've already agreed you went directly from your childhood to your early twenties."

Sliding a long arm around her shoulders, Mycroft pulled her towards him, rolling until she was entirely on top of him so he could loop both arms around her as she stared down into his face.

"I already know the names of every university on the Costigan woman's list," he murmured, his eyes smiling at her. "And I think I know just the place for them both to go."

"Bloody Oxford, I suppose," Cate muttered. "You've never stopped telling me how much better the place is than Cambridge," she stroked the line of his mouth and the smoothness of his face after the recent shave.

"Not Oxford," he smiled, pleased, leaning up to touch her lips with his own. "Nor even Cambridge."

"Then where?" taking a deep breath, Cate rolled them both the other way, until he was lying on top of her. A giggle broke free as the air was squashed from her lungs. "Tell me, O Oracle of All Knowledge."

Tightening his arms around her back, Mycroft nuzzled the side of her neck, finding the soft lobe of her ear, tugging it gently between his lips. "Guess," he smiled against her velvety skin.

"I have no intention of guessing anything," Cate curved away until she could meet his eyes again. "Tell me what you have in mind."

"I have many things in my mind," Mycroft murmured, nibbling down the column of her throat.

"You know that's not what I'm asking," she sighed and closed her eyes as his lips followed the line of her jaw, pressing soft kisses until he returned to her ear. Which tickled. She giggled again. "Be serious."

"I am being perfectly serious ..." she felt his body tense just before he rolled them both to where they were before, with Cate back on top. "But if you'd rather not talk about the twins' future at this precise minute, I can think of more productive things we might discuss," his arms tightened hard about her, eliciting a gust of quiet laughter as she squirmed around until she got comfortable. It took quite a bit of wriggling.

"You did that on purpose," his voice was barely audible as he brought one hand up to slide through the silky thickness of her hair. The other reached down between them until he found the hem of her nightdress.

"I thought you wanted a productive discussion?" she whispered, wriggling some more until she heard the breath hiss between his teeth. "Tell me."

"You'll never be able to break me, you know," there was laughter and desire in his voice as Mycroft drew her closer, his free hand already roaming over the smooth skin of her hip and lower back. "I've been trained by experts."

"Tell me or I'll be forced to keep squirming about and I know how much you like me doing that," she laughed, matching her words to the deed.

Mycroft groaned. This was hardly sporting.

"I do hope you're not planning to use this method of persuasion in future negotiations," his breathing seized as she moved ... _just_ _so_ ... a sensuous heaviness in his loins pulsing pleasure outwards to every part of his body. "I may cave in embarrassingly swiftly," he sighed as the last of his pyjama buttons parted way.

"Tell me, or there'll be absolutely no mercy for you," Cate's voice was husky with her own desire as she stroked his chest with her fingertips.

"With you as their mother, you worry about how the twins will cope?" Mycroft's gravelly laughter morphed into a deep groan as Cate was true to her threat.

"Show some charity," he gasped as his wife's caresses threatened to overload his ability to think of anything at all.

"Then _tell_ me," she whispered.

"Oh, very well," Mycroft pushed back up and murmured three words in her ear.

Cate stopped all movement, the expression on her face one of moderate astonishment. Thoughts flung themselves through her brain as she realised, once again, that he was miles ahead of her.

"You knew we'd be having this talk tonight, didn't you?" she leaned forward, capturing his gaze which was extremely blue and laughing.

"I suspected the possibility," he blinked solemnly.

"Hence the shave?" she raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"An integral element of my eventual capitulation and ultimate defeat at your hands." The corner of his mouth twitched.

"So I wouldn't be uncomfortable when I interrogated you," Cate widened her eyes. "Oh, you are in _such_ deep water right now," she laughed. "Prepare for unspeakable suffering."

Closing his eyes, a broad smile on his face, Mycroft Holmes willingly sacrificed his all.

###

Landry Banister was a boarder at Westminster, which meant he only returned to the care and supervision of his mother in Sussex at weekends, which was just the way he liked things, but as soon as he reached his majority, he'd probably never go back.

Being a boarder had certain advantages.

He didn't hate his mother; on the contrary, she was a reasonably normal person who had long since allowed him to go pretty much his own way. _Not much she could have done about it anyway_ , he thought, smiling to himself. Not only that, but the income generated by his mother's expertise in managing horses and even more importantly, in managing the horses' _owners_ , paid for him to have a decent education and to explore a variety of interests. No, he didn't _hate_ her.

Neither did he care for her overmuch.

When she had thrown his father out the last time after his return from Australia following an admittedly disastrous speculation project, there had been an almighty row, though it hadn't been the first time his parents had almost come to blows. There had been an uneasy truce between the two of them almost for as long as he could remember. She'd even gone back to using her maiden name of Banister after _Devereux_ became too synonymous with financial scandal. Why they hadn't divorced years ago, he couldn't imagine, except that she was the only one really bringing any money into the family while his father gambled in venture capital. His parents were in equal part-ownership of the freehold of the Sussex stables and farm, neither being able to sell unless the other agreed. He was confident his father had wanted to use the farm as collateral on many occasions, and equally as confident that his mother would never have permitted it. So Devereux had taken off, spending the vast majority of his time these days, overseas.

Which meant that he saw his father only infrequently, probably a good thing too, as it gave him the best of both worlds; financial support and relative freedom from any parental oversight.

On the rare times that James Devereux was in London, he made a point of catching up with the youngest member of his family. Though Landry had little affection for his father's poor business choices, his life was always so exciting, involving world-travel and access to all sorts of fascinating opportunities. This last trip of his to Sydney had been both particularly attractive and particularly ruinous. Landry had begged to be taken along so he might study some of the indigenous cave-paintings first hand.

Though that particular trip had not eventuated, certain promises had been made and Landry was determined to see those promises fulfilled. So determined, in fact, that when his father had told him to make friends with the Holmes twins, he had done so without any great demur or the need to ask probing questions. His father usually had a reason for these kinds of requests.

Julius Holmes wasn't all that interesting; always off doing something weird or stupid, like observing rainfall patterns or drawing engine schematics, but his _sister_ ...

Blythe Holmes, Landry had to admit, was not difficult at all to look at. Despite her being a little on the young side for his personal tastes, she was already the right kind of shape ... and those _eyes_. Deep blue, like the shadows of an underwater cavern. He wondered what those eyes would look like right after she'd been kissed.

He'd worked out the easiest way to get Blythe's attention was through their shared fascination with historical documents and ancient languages, and he'd made sure he was in possession of the book he'd overheard her talking about. After that, it had been a simply matter to engage her in conversation and gradually build up to the point where holding her hand on the way to class one day, seemed a natural development.

But now there was a problem. Now her father had told her to stop seeing him, to have no contact with him at all, in fact, though Blythe had said she didn't know why. As she was always so trustingly honest, he had no reason to doubt what she said.

Being a boarder had certain advantages, including the ability to entertain guests in his room, though all members of the opposite sex had to be out of residence by eight at night.

He had a guest in his room now, in fact, though not one who was likely to be thrown out anytime soon.

"So you're seeing Blythe Holmes again on Friday afternoon, eh?"

Landry nodded. "I'm going to bring her back here, I think," he smiled, knowingly.

His guest frown slightly, before a very different expression covered his features. "Why not take her to Sussex to meet your mother?"

"You think she'd come?"

"I'm sure she can be convinced," James Devereux smiled just as deliberately as his son.


	7. Chapter 7

_Blackmail – A Dream of Gracious Living – Cate Makes Inquiries – Mycroft Does Lunch – Blythe - The Pedigree of a Dog._

#

#

The red phone rang.

The red phone on his desk almost _never_ rang without him expecting the call, but today, its soft single rill came out of the blue. Mycroft had the handset to his ear before it rang a second time.

"Yes?" There was no need of pleasantries. Of the three people with access to this number, none would desire the social niceties.

 _A second letter had been received at the palace_. Almost identical to the first, the person or persons behind this entire, incredibly sensitive situation was still unidentified, though not quite so unknown as before. Through a rigorous process of elimination, the security services had narrowed the field of possibilities down to a scant handful.

Neither of the letters contained any of the trigger-words or phrases so beloved of extremist factions; there were no death-threats or promises of ongoing violence and disaster. For this, at least, Mycroft was thankful.

Nor were the missives accompanied by anything other than an old-fashioned Polaroid photograph, each photo, in fact, of another document. The photograph in the second letter confirmed whoever was behind this intrigue had access to at least two extremely confidential letters, both, it seemed, quite genuine. Both displayed the formal and unmistakable signature of the highest and most august public figure in the land.

That _her_ signature adorned either of these documents was in itself something of a scandal; the documents' subject matter old, though not of sufficient age to be dismissed as irrelevant. That either of these documents existed in the first instance was an even bigger scandal, and the government departments involved in their creation would be severely compromised both politically and in the public eye were such information ever to reach the public domain. That not one, but now _two_ of these communications had reached their destination, causing immeasurable grief and upset to the individual concerned, was deplorable and a scandal of an altogether different magnitude. That the photographed documents were being used in order to further a private agenda irrespective of damage such a scheme might cause, was intolerable. That they might be manipulated to place the very succession to the British throne at stake was unthinkable.

Mycroft was incensed, and not only because his family were caught up in one of the central roles in this detestable undertaking. _Blackmail_. He despised his ongoing inability to simply swoop down upon the culprits and convey them hence to a place of long-term incarceration. But if he pushed for a swift solution, a physical solution, he risked putting an as yet undetermined flood of sensitive material on the market in full national and international view, and this he dare not chance. The first photographed document had been verified as genuine; he had little doubt the second would be equally so. While he prided himself on the consistent application of cool reason to resolve the problems facing him, on this particular occasion and in a dark corner of his heart, he acknowledged a desire to visit some quite personal carnage upon those behind this current dilemma.

He had instructed his people to bring him the most probable options, running on a logical search algorithm he had devised. There were fewer common denominators than were at first imagined, and only one name had so far appeared twice. In such strained circumstances and under such pressure, it was imperative that each step be resolved, taken calmly and with the full knowledge of all concerned. Everything was being triple-checked and checked again. And yet the name had still appeared twice. Three times, if one counted the separate letter unearthed by his brother and John Watson in the files at Carlton Gardens.

 _James Francis Devereux_.

It was almost certain now that Devereux _had_ to be involved in the blackmail attempt, though no hard proof of such an involvement had yet been uncovered. His letter of recommendation, proposing Mycroft for the barony might have been a totally innocent gesture. Such letters of commission were all part of the honours system, but they almost inevitably came from people whom the nominee knew very well. Mycroft had had no previous contact with Devereux other than reading the man's name in the papers after yet another financial debacle. Nor, frankly, was he the type of individual with whom any of the Holmes would wish to socialise. Therefore, Devereux was either an innocent dupe, being used in much the same way as Mycroft was himself, or he _had_ to be part of the actual scheme. Since even a superficial investigation had made it abundantly clear the man was as far away from innocence as the original serpent in the garden, it was increasingly difficult to supply Devereux with any benefit of the doubt. Mycroft was convinced he was in this up to his neck, the man's open involvement a mark of extreme ego.

Yet despite his unsavoury past, Devereux still had his fingers in many influential pies, had access to so many committees, despite his less-than-stellar reputation. He had gone to the 'right' schools and belonged to the 'right' clubs. Devereux's sense of self, along with his grossly inflated sense of entitlement could easily have led him to this; after all the scheming and international schemes he'd attempted, the slight matter of blackmailing the Crown would be a mere peccadillo. He was also an extremely ingenious man. If indeed he was the instigator behind this overall plot, whatever the end goal might be, then he must have been planning this for a long time. Possibly years.

 _And if it were Devereux, what did he want?_ Thus far, there had been no demands, not even a threat as such, only the clever presentation of the photographs to confirm at least two documents were in the blackmailers' possession. _This_ was the weakness in the theory. Thus far, Devereux, if he were involved, had asked for nothing, nor, apart from large sums of money, did his background suggest any particular objective or long-term desire. However, were money all that he desired there had to be easier blackmail victims than ... _her_. No, there was far more at stake here, and Mycroft was not prepared to move on Devereux until he had all the details at hand. He would simply have to grit his teeth and follow the instructions he had been directed to follow, no matter how much he might wish for an alternative solution.

The letter accompanying the first photograph directed that a Royal Writ be produced, declaring Mycroft Holmes as Baron of Esgair, which made no earthly sense. There was nothing, so far, that might be of any benefit to another individual. Anyone with any brains at all would immediately suspect Mycroft himself of orchestrating this, which is why he suggested his retirement be mooted, as well as the plan for him to write and publish his memoirs. It would at least allow for a delay in answering difficult questions if nothing else.

In the meantime, Devereux's entire family was under very close watch. The man himself, of course, but also his semi-estranged wife's coming-and-goings at their jointly-owned training stables near Pulborough, as well as the son still at school ... the very same school as his own children. How he wished that Blythe had never met the Devereux boy; odd things had been noted in Landry Devereux's school and medical records: his changeability, his strange moods and tempers. Even if his father had not been held in the deepest of suspicion, Mycroft would not have wished that particular young man into his daughter's life. _Oh yes_ , he nodded grimly to himself. A very careful eye was being kept on _every_ member of the Devereux line.

But right now, there was the matter of the second letter.

"I want the special team on analysis immediately," he instructed. "Every scrap of information, every detail and inference. Initial data and assessment to me by the end of the hour, with updates every thirty minutes thereafter."

There was an urgent-sounding reply before the line to MI5 went dead.

Mycroft sat at his desk, absently biting the tip of his thumb as he tried to imagine what James Devereux could possibly be planning. In the interim, however, he had a decoy rumour to promulgate. He sighed and picked up a second landline, a far more normal piece of technology yet almost as secure as its brightly coloured mate. For at least a while longer, Mycroft had to be seen to be following his own cover story by departing his role for retirement into family life. As a private individual, his situation could not be used against any of the security services or the officers of the Crown, but _until_ he was a private individual, there were things he had to do.

"Get me the Political Commissioning Editor of Penguin Random House, please," he rubbed his temple where an incipient headache was attempting to make itself at home. "I believe we should meet over lunch. Somewhere public. One-ish."

There was a brief response from Anthea at the other end.

"It wasn't an invitation," Mycroft scowled forebodingly as he replaced the phone.

###

"And up here is where you want to have your room?" Jack was up in the attic with Jules who, on a teaching-free day, was helping the temporary butler to rummage around in an ancient steamer-trunk that Cate had said housed several ornate silver-plate candlesticks which saw the light of day only at Christmas. Now that he'd reorganised some of the storage in the kitchen, there was an entire shelf in the wall-wide, glass-fronted display cabinet, and Jack wanted to exhibit the silverware. He'd already found a couple of nice trays and a large silver water jug that nobody seemed to know existed, but the promise of candlesticks, even silver-plated ones, was sufficient to send him on an unswervable quest. The image of gleamingly polished silver was, to Jack, the epitome of gracious living. All the best houses displayed their silver and he was determined that the Holmes' residence would be no different. Pulling out one of the three drawers in the dusty trunk, Jack saw a heavy linen bag filled with intriguingly lumpy contents. With a grin on his face, he pulled the bag carefully towards him.

"Yep," Jules stood up and looked around. Right at the top level of the townhouse, the attics comprised a significant space, the footprint of this upper floor a basic rectangle with a central opening for the stairs leading down to the floor beneath. He cast a thoughtful eye along the line of the walls and windows. If his parents allowed him to live up here, he'd really push to try and get at least a couple of the windows raised; maybe even see if he could have a small balcony; it would be great to look over London first thing in the morning from his own private viewing deck. "Nice and quiet and private and mine to do whatever I want to do in it," he grinned down at the blond man on his knees, digging into a big cloth bag. "I can't wait."

"Fantastic!" Jack sat back on his haunches, pulling a very heavy three-branched candelabrum from out the fabric bag, so Jules wasn't sure if the trainee butler was agreeing with his desire to have a rooftop pad, or voicing delight at the silverware.

The metal was tarnished and dull, but not so dirty as to conceal the silver hallmarks on the base and Jack held it up to the light from the uncurtained windows. His eyes widened a little as he hefted the piece in his hands.

"I thought your mother said this stuff was silver-plate," he muttered, turning the candelabra in his hands and rechecking the hallmarks.

"Why? Isn't it plate at all?" Jules sounded a little bored. "Some knock-off stuff from an old flea-market, probably."

Jack held out the weighty silver. "Check it out for yourself," he said, holding the piece upside down. "See the lion _passant_ , then the crown and a big 'C' beside it?"

Jules squinted, nodding.

"Not plate at all, in that case," Jack returned to rummaging in the other drawers of the trunk. "Solid sterling, that one," he added. "1823, Sheffield, and the maker's mark is LJ Brown, a good name in nineteenth-century precious metals. It has to weigh more than twenty troy ounces. Worth quite a bit, in fact."

"I know Mummy brought a few things up from Deepdene for a huge Christmas bash we had here a couple of years ago," Jules' eyes went vague in the act of recall. "The PM came, as well as a bunch of ministers. There were a few ambassadors in there too," he shrugged. "But it was a lot of work for her, despite getting caterers in, so we haven't had another one that big for a while," he added. "Shame, really. It was good fun trying to work out who was lying to whom."

"Big party for senior politicians and diplomats, eh?" Jack closed his eyes. He could picture it all now; the glow of magnificent candles, the sound of discreet music, a ripple of elegant conversation and the genteel movements of well-organised, uniformed waiters. An immaculate presentation of style and ultimate class.

"Yeah. Shame you won't be around for the next one," Jules shrugged again, his face unreadable as he returned to look out the window at his favourite skyline.

The realisation that the boy was right; that he wouldn't be around for the next Christmas, or probably any other kind of party in this house gave Jack a prickle of dissatisfaction. He frowned, even as he pulled out another bag containing two, separately-wrapped items. Uncovering them, he found the candlesticks that Cate had described. Edwardian, heavy-based, square. He checked the hallmarks. These definitely were plate, but of a very good maker, and they sat heavily in his hands. Beautiful things.

"There's some really nice stuff here," he murmured, putting the candlesticks back into their wrappings.

"Did my mother mention the trophy cups?" Jules asked. "There a big box of them somewhere," he looked around. "Some are the General's for sword-fighting competitions while he was in the army, but Mummy won a few for her martial arts championships. They're actually quite nice, for silver."

Jack closed his eyes and groaned softly. He was going to need another shelf.

###

Now that she'd made at least an initial commitment to an architect, Cate decided nothing was going to get in the way of the renovations. The money was available and, as she had no plans to approach a bank for a loan, she could go right ahead and begin looking for ideas to show the twins. She was fairly sure, however, that both her children would already have very clear requirements. Her mind returned to the previous evening at the school. How quickly they had grown up.

She was currently browsing the furniture design shops in and around London, both the modern, edgy, industrial-feel ones, and the older, more traditional versions, but in the end, she gave up. The twins would both know far better than she what kind of look they'd prefer. As she sat thinking about the twins' needs, she remembered what Mycroft had whispered to her the previous night. There was little point asking if he were sure; he invariably was.

With the thought fresh in her mind, she picked up her mobile and called a number almost as familiar in her memory as her own phone.

A neutral-sounding voice answered and Cate smiled.

"I'd like to speak to someone about the Advanced Entry program you have for under-eighteens," she said. "I'm in need of advice, please."

The person at the far end of the conversation was clearly pleased to assist, putting Cate though to another number where another pleasant voice came online. After only a couple of minutes of focused listening, a completely new idea floated through her head.

"I'm sorry," she smiled down the phone. "Can I stop you there for a moment?" she took a deep breath. "I wonder if you would be so kind as to put me through to another extension?"

###

Sherlock folded his arms and rested his chin on his chest, frowning in deep thought. James Devereux was either involved in this moderately interesting blackmail case, or he was an innocent party, coerced into the fray exactly as had his brother. However, from the information Mycroft provided, Devereux's complete innocence seemed unlikely in the extreme, the one flaw in that supposition being the lack of any evidence whatsoever of gain, either financially, physically or otherwise, that might be considered a payoff. Though it was tantalisingly obvious Devereux had somehow to be involved in the extortion, there was not yet one shred of proof. Mycroft's people would be examining the smallest fragments of data surrounding the man and his family in their present situation, as well as their recent past. _How recent_ , he wondered.

He checked his watch. There was a certain royal corporation that might offer some answers, and it was just after ten in the morning. Even government employees should be up and at their governmental ... things ... whatever it was that these particular employees did these days.

" _John_ ," he shouted upstairs. "Hurry up. We have a twenty-minute taxi ride ahead of us; your blog can wait."

A minute later, the sound of slow footsteps on the stairs announced the blond man's presence.

Sherlock looked up, about to chivvy his friend along, but the chastisement died unspoken. John wore a certain and highly specific expression, the kind of expression he only usually wore immediately following an unpleasant telephone conversation. Since there were relatively few individuals with whom John was able to hold such a conversation in the first place, present company included, then the likelihood was that he had just been speaking to his ...

"I take it Harry's not doing well with the rehab?" Though John's sister's drinking problem was of no more interest to him today that it had been for the last ten years, Sherlock had learned to be a little concerned. Harry's situation upset John and an upset John was an unhelpful John.

"Not really," the blond man sighed, dropping heavily into his chair. "Although she's stuck this one out far longer than any of the others."

"Which is why she's trying to bully you into agreeing she can return home," Sherlock nodded. "Trust me, this is a good sign. It means she's already past the first stage of exhaustion."

"You think?" John sounded sceptical.

"Absolutely," the younger Holmes nodded again. "She can feel a change starting to happen and it hurts and it's hateful, and she's terrified and looking for an out. Don't give her one."

"I didn't,' John smiled faintly. "I told her to go and speak to one of the counsellors and I'd call her back tomorrow."

"Excellent idea," Sherlock smiled fleetingly. "Fancy a cup of tea?"

Heaving a huge sigh, John sat back in his chair, dragging fingers through his tousled hair. "Didn't you shout something a minute ago about getting a taxi?"

Keeping his face mildly expressionless, Sherlock pursed his mouth. "If you feel like a bit of an historical investigation," he said artlessly.

"Something historical to do with Mycroft?" John looked puzzled.

"Something like that," Sherlock stood. "Do you want tea or shall we go?"

Standing, John rearranged the look on his face. He needed something to distract him from the ongoing saga of Harry's dysfunctional existence. "Let's go," he grabbed his coat, pausing. "Where are we actually going?"

"One-thirty, Queen Victoria Street," Sherlock gave the address to the cabbie as he held the door open for his shorter friend, settling into the seat beside him.

"We're going to see a man about the pedigree of a dog," he said, his eyes a hundred years away in thought.

"A dog?" John knew his friend of old. There was more to come.

"Or possibly a swine," Sherlock nodded. "Maybe even a snake in the grass."

"Can you _please_ try explaining things for _once_ , without resorting to indecipherable metaphors?" John sounded more that usually exasperated.

Sherlock remembered the Harry conversation.

"The College of Arms," he announced, as if that were all that needed. "They keep pedigrees."

"Of dogs?" John frowned.

"Of people, John, of _people_ ," Sherlock turned to look at his friend. "The College of Arms, also known as the College of Heralds. They keep pedigrees ... family trees."

"Ahhh ..." light began to dawn. "You're thinking there's some link between what James Devereux is doing and historical record ... but of what?" John frowned again.

"An excellent question and one which I'm hoping will be resolved by this visit," Sherlock's mobile beeped as a text arrived. "Another letter's been sent to the Palace," he murmured, reading from the screen. "Mycroft is probably going to be frothing at the mouth very shortly ..."

A second beep sounded. Sherlock laughed as he read the new text.

"My brother is having a public lunch meeting with a publisher to discuss his memoirs," the younger Holmes grinned widely. "Oh to be a fly on the wall for _that_ one."

###

Oliver S. Penton, the London-based Political Editor of Penguin Random, only son of Mr and Mrs Geoffrey Penton, accountants both, of Amherst, Kent, who had sent their child away to the best school they could afford as soon as he'd turned seven, waited. He'd sat at the table, by himself for at least five minutes now and he was bored, so bored, that he fiddled with his silverware. In the thirty years since he'd left home for boarding school that first time, awash in infantile tears and pre-emptive homesickness, he'd never found himself in such an inexplicable situation, and though he'd developed something of a reputation as a hard-ball player in his particular field, this meeting was, he had to admit, a little different. He smiled knowingly as he took a sip of water and looked around the place. The last time he'd been here it was to discuss the advance contract for the publication of an autobiography by a soon-to-be-retired politician, a _senior_ minister, who had eventually left the restaurant professing his grateful thanks that Penton was going to even _consider_ publishing his scribbles. The idea of an advanced payment had only been mentioned once, but Oliver had soon put paid to that. Times were tight; no publisher these days could afford to throw cash around like confetti. The bad old days of pandering to author's whims was gone and _never coming back_ , if Penton had anything to do with it.

But today, he'd been instructed by no less than the Chairman of the Board to arrive and wait like a good little boy. He'd been waiting for forever and since he was more used to having others wait on _him_ , he took his ennui out on the silverware. His breadknife was first to be hefted and used as a drumstick and, when that wasn't a sufficient distraction , he rearranged his forks into a more pleasing diorama.

As instructed, he'd sat himself at the rearmost window-facing table in _The Avenue_ in St James's, expecting the arrival of someone who, he'd been told, wished to discuss the publication of his memoirs. Another politician or an antediluvian civil servant, most likely, Penton yawned, more bored than before. His fingers caressed a soup spoon.

"My apologies," a tall, dark-haired man interrupted Penton's thoughts. "Traffic." The man smiled briefly as he sat. "I see you ... attended Eton," he murmured, his glance flickering over Penton's opened menu back to the man himself.

Uncertain as to a response with such an unorthodox opening, Oliver Penton paused, then nodded, "The teachers were good." He was already experiencing a feeling that he might lose the initiative in the conversation. Time to make his presence felt. Turning slowly as the newcomer seated himself, he made a show of looking the stranger up and down, as if speculating on potential weaknesses.

The ultrafine merino and clearly bespoke dark blue pin-stripe screamed authority; the darkly-rich gold and red of the indulgent yet still understated silk tie proclaimed a vast independence of spirit, the fabric itself picked out with the most delicate of hand-embroidered designs suggesting utter indifference to opinion. The pristine, high-count white linen shirt fitted without wrinkle or line to mar its smooth luxury and heavy gold gleamed subtly at tie and cuffs. Penton caught the faint whiff of an expensive cologne. Even the man's hands, the long-fingered lines of either pianist or philosopher, were smooth and spare, with an elegant, manicured appearance. Without a word spoken, Penton realised he might have to lift his game a little with this one. He smoothed down his own impeccable school tie, strands of the light blue silk stripes reflecting the overhead lights.

A polite cough brought his attention back to the moment.

"Mycroft Holmes," the man said, lifting a single finger at the nearest member of restaurant staff who hurried over. "The salmon penne, no wine, thank you," he smiled economically at the waiter before turning his entire attention to the editor. "I wish to discuss the publication of my memoirs," he said, a set of piercing blue eyes seeming to spear Oliver through to the back of his seat.

About time, Penton thought, to start putting his own stamp on the proceedings. "I'll take the prime rib and a bottle of the _Chateau Le Commandeur_ ," his smile was smooth and aimed generally at the waiter and surrounding tables for the best effect, as he turned easily towards his guest.

"Very glad to finally meet you, Mycroft," the younger man smiled glibly as he reached for and shook the manicured fingers. "Heard a lot about you from the Chairman; told me I needed to see what kind of arrangement we can come up for your _auto_ , assuming, of course, it meets our publishing standards which, I have to say," Oliver lifted his eyebrows in a coyly meaningful way as he smiled again. "Are rather high."

"What is your organisation's usual advance for a publication of this nature?" Mycroft allowed the returning waiter to unfold a starched white napkin and lay it across his lap, just as a second servitor arrived with a wide white bowl sitting on an equally wide white plate. The fragrant steam of dill and lemon wafted over the table as the waiter also brought a wine cooler containing a bottle of mineral water in ice. He poured a tall glass, leaving it with arm's reach before nodding and backing away.

"Please, don't wait for me," Penton waved Mycroft towards his lunch. "I'm used to running around after clients," his laugh was a little too self-sacrificing and noble.

"The usual advance?" Mycroft ignored his lunch and Penton's inanities. "I will require at least the usual amount, though a somewhat higher sum might be beneficial in sending the right message."

 _Sending the right message?_ Who did this joker think he was? Oliver managed to keep his features reasonably straight.

"Sorry Mycroft," he looked appropriately apologetic. "Advances for autobiogs aren't really _happening_ all that much at the moment," he screwed up his face. "Even if your manuscript meets our quality control parameters, we might not be able to offer much of an advance, if any, in fact," he shrugged and took a big mouthful of the rich burgundy. His steak arrived, surrounded by all the trimmings and he smiled in deep satisfaction. Not many people could boast of this kind of treatment during the week.

"Mr Penton, I don't think you quite understand the situation," Mycroft was still ignoring his lunch, his eyes remaining focused on Penton's face. Resting his elbows on the table, he linked his fingers and smiled, thinly. "This is not a matter of what you think, or even of what you are prepared or not prepared to do," his smile didn't waver. "Your organisation will offer me a full and proper contract for the unabridged publication of a manuscript which I will, at some point, agree to provide. Information regarding the contract will be made public through the usual sources, and I believe it would be permissible for your publishing house to make it known that a personal memoir of mine has been accepted for publication by you personally," he sipped his water. "You might even let slip that it contains certain salacious details."

Oliver Penton blinked as he set down his knife and fork. Clearly this one was a little too thick to understand a subtle message and needed a bit more clarification.

"Now look, Mycroft ..." he got no further.

"Your parents clearly know nothing about the small embezzlement you embarked upon with your previous employer," Mycroft withdrew a slender notebook from an inner jacket pocket, consulting a specific page. "Nor does your current employer, but believe me, that can very easily be remedied."

Oliver felt a wash of ice roll over him. Who _was_ this guy?

"I have no idea what you're talking abo ..."

"Moreover, "Mycroft closed the book, clearly not needing its contents to continue. "The woman with whom you're currently associating believes you to be one step away from a more senior management role, possibly one that would take you and she to New York where the lady has high hopes of resuscitating a stage career in an off-off Broadway revival of some insignificant tragicomedy," he paused. "Were she to discover that not only are you _not_ on a senior management track, but that your present role is being considered for termination, then I dare say your romantic life might hit something of a slump," he added blithely. "Don't you agree?"

"I ... I ... you have no right to say these ..."

" _Further_ ," Mycroft's smile verged on the indecent. "If you really want people to think you attended Eton, then occasionally wearing an internet-bought tie and ordering an Eton Mess is never going to work," he added. "And at least learn the correct terminology," he muttered. " _Teachers_."

Penton felt the walls closing in. "Who are you and what do you want?" his voice sounded curiously hesitant.

"The usual advance for a political memoir _is_ ..?" Mycroft lifted his eyebrows.

"Depending on how big a name and public profile the author has, then anything between £150,000 and £800,000," Oliver swallowed hard but said nothing else.

"Good man," Mycroft smiled his thin smile again. "I don't want to appear greedy, so shall we say a £400,000 advance and the usual royalties?"

Nodding, Penton swallowed again. "I'll have to get a sign-off for that amount," he said.

"I think you'll find it's already been taken care of," Mycroft sat back in his seat and admired his lunch, picking up a fork. "Well then," he sounded pleased. "Now that business is out of the way, what shall we discuss?"

Penton swallowed another large mouthful of the red wine but choked a little, spilling a fair bit of the dark red wine on his expensive school tie.

"Oh, that's never going to come out, I'm afraid," Mycroft sounded almost sympathetic.

###

Though Blythe sat alone in her room, she knew she was not alone, knew, in fact, where every member of her family was at this moment and she imagined herself at the centre of a thickly bound familial web. The knowledge left a calm feeling deep inside the still waters at her core. Jules was in the attics with Jack Parrish doing something probably unnecessary and, knowing her brother, already making plans for the allocation of dimensions in his new apartment. It was what she would have done had she not already known precisely what she wanted in the cellar, thus there was no need to keep revisiting the space. But Jules liked doing that sort of thing; the artist in him always demanding another look.

Her mother was in her office downstairs, either working on press-releases for her new novel, or doing something else connected to the book-publishing world, though whatever it was, it wasn't actual writing. When a new book was in progress, the office door was closed tight and the faint sound of rapid typing was all the sound that came out of the room. Blythe had heard her mother's voice faintly on the phone not so long ago, so no writing today.

Daddy was in Whitehall this afternoon, she knew. He had left this morning wearing one of his serious suits, the ones he wore when he knew people were going to ask him to do things he had no intention of doing. Not all his suits were like that and she had long, long ago worked out how to assess his mood based on nothing more than the way he knotted his tie. Blythe wondered if it was like that for him, too; this strange awareness of detail and minutia that made the larger picture so incredibly obvious, even if the picture itself was in darkness.

She sighed. Though he'd never say anything, she knew her father was dealing with a very difficult situation right now, the fact that he'd decided not to tell his family anything, that he was prepared to have people think he was retiring, a sign of how critical and personal the problem was. And she knew she had a good idea who else might somehow be involved.

 _Landry Banister_.

She had seen the shadows of untruth and deception in his eyes last evening at school after he'd kissed her ... she brushed fingertips across her mouth at the memory.

The pain that had cut through her entire body at that moment had been unlike anything she'd ever felt before, her voice sounding very quiet even to her own ears, but Blythe knew what the cause of the pain was, which helped a little.

Not the fact that she was losing someone who had begun to play an increasingly bigger part in her life, no, not that, even though she knew Landry's absence would leave a horrible gap. Nor was it that she had been betrayed, which of course she had. Blythe was quietly amazed at her ability to rationalise her way through the experience, almost as if she were looking down upon herself from afar. Landry's treachery was painful, not for the fact that he was attempting to use her, or even that he was so obviously in collusion with his father, James Devereux, hence her own father's direction that she have nothing else to do with the boy. It was for none of these things that Blythe felt a growing contempt for the friend she'd started to consider more than a friend.

It was because Landry had taken her for a fool.

After everything they had worked on together in school, after all the conversations they'd had, and debates and arguments, both amusing and serious. After _all_ of these things, he'd still assumed she was nothing more than another of the other self-obsessed butterflies she'd seen floating around him before.

Alone and in her room, Blythe felt an icy sensation begin to coalesce deep inside, something so cold and hard, it felt like steel around her chest. She was perfectly aware that something would have to be done about this, what remained now, of course, was to work out exactly what that might be.

Landry wasn't even her first concern anymore, it was the arrangement Landry had agreed with his father, and Blythe realised she _very much_ wanted to know the particulars of that. It might even be something her father could use to resolve his current situation, whatever it was.

Therefore, regardless of what her father wanted and despite the fact that she knew Landry Banister to be an untrustworthy liar, Blythe decided to keep her appointment with him on Friday afternoon. It would be at school with other people around and she would be quite safe.

There was very little that might go wrong.

###

"And so you see," the Chester Herald, an older man who'd drafted many a family tree, nodded thoughtfully as he hovered over the unscrolled pedigree of the Dignities of Esgair, waving a finger around the last incumbent. "The late Baron died in his fifty-fourth year without having formally registered any legitimate heirs," the man nodded thoughtfully. "The barony has been abeyant for almost ten years, making this moment a _very_ interesting point of time."

"Why interesting?" John was distracted by the sheer amount of gold-leaf hanging on the walls around him. It was as if a drunk artist had gone quite mad with a spray gun. The stuff was everywhere.

"Interesting," the Herald smiled briefly, "because of what happens upon the tenth anniversary of the death of the last legal holder of the title."

"Which is?" Sherlock felt a stir of curiosity. Perhaps at last there might be some inkling of a reason for Devereux's actions.

"Which is the time when all other claimants, including those who can trace their lineage from the _sinister_ or female side of the family may lay claim to the title, especially intriguing in this case due to the very precise wording of the terms of inheritance when the title was created back in seventeen forty-seven."

"So alternative claimants are able to throw their hats into the ring after ten years if a recognised heir doesn't turn up?" John nodded. That made sense of a sort.

"But why _especially_ intriguing?" Sherlock fixed the Herald with an unblinking stare.

The older man smiled, tapping the edge of the long document with a gentle finger. "The terms of this particular inheritance are worded most carefully," he said. "It makes a noted allowance for all male-born heirs ..."

Sherlock's eyes widened and a brief smiled curved his lips. "Ah," he looked pleased. "So _that's_ it."

Not sure quite what he'd missed, John looked from the Herald to Sherlock and back.

"The terms of the inheritance specify than _any male-born heir_ may apply for the title, John," Sherlock's features were alight with amusement. "But what is does _not_ specify is that these male heirs must be _lawfully_ born."

"Which means ... _ahhh_ ," John's eyebrows rose as the penny dropped.


	8. Chapter 8

_A Postponement – Interrogating the Past – A Matter of Trust – The Contemplations of Holmes the Elder – A Dangerous Plan._

#

#

As soon as he'd returned to his office, one look at Anthea's face and Mycroft knew the situation had degenerated during his brief absence.

"The Head of Palace Security has somehow found out about the second letter and has been asking all sorts of difficult questions in a very loud and very public way," Anthea was almost brusque with irritation. "Honestly, if these people can't handle a minor flap, what on _earth_ are they in these jobs for?" she snapped, stepping away to answer her phone for the tenth time in ten minutes.

Selecting the red phone on his desk, Mycroft pushed one of three buttons and heard the new Head of MI5 explaining the fiasco almost before he had the handset at his ear.

"How the bloody hell the man even got wind of the situation is still a mystery. We've kept the entire situation on a need-know basis only," Lawrence Hapton-Gill swore softly in his beautifully cut-glass accent. "Only two of the senior Palace staff who had actually seen the first letter had been brought into the briefing since they were the ones who had to be able to account for all the extra activity on the Palace premises," Mycroft could hear the man sigh as the far end of the call. "However, the damage is apparently done, and we've got a very cross Head of Palace Security detained in a meeting room at Buck House itself," he said.

"Have him brought in for questioning," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "It will keep him out of harm's way and give him something else to worry about for the moment, at least until he agrees to shut up, or we can have him tucked away somewhere nice and quiet for the duration."

"And when he decides to go public and sue for false arrest and illegal imprisonment?" Hapton-Gill was well aware of how delicate such matters were these days.

"The man's signed the Official Secrets Act," Mycroft shook his head. "He'll do neither when he's calmed down," he added. "The important thing at the moment is to ensure he infects nobody else with his knowledge or his concerns; we _cannot_ risk this thing going public."

"I'll ensure you're informed when my people are done," the MI5 chief hurriedly ended the call.

There was almost no possibility that this thing was going to die down at any time in the near future, with every likelihood that it might, in fact, become progressively worse before the evening was out, especially as more information became available. It was at times like this that his people's ability to move swiftly and in utter secret made Mycroft's task just that little bit easier.

But he would need to be on deck the whole time, which meant ... pulling his Nokia from an inside jacket pocket, he dialled Cate.

"I'm terribly sorry, my love," his voice reflected his own disappointment. "But we're going to have to postpone our little escapade of this evening until the situation I'm currently dealing with is resolved," he said. "I had hoped to have it all cleared away by now, but it's become more complex than I initially imagined. Will you forgive me?"

It wasn't the first time either of them had had to postpone arrangements and Cate knew it was unlikely to be the last, either.

"Both the theatre and the Langham will still be there in a couple of weeks' time," she smiled down the phone at the man who could ask anything of her and she would give it; an unswerving loyalty, an unquestioning love and admiration. "But this may cost you a foot-massage, on top of everything else, you realise."

"Only your feet?' Mycroft's voice dropped to the place that gave her shivers.

"You can start with my feet and we'll see where we go from there," Cate laughed. She loved him, loved his endless teasing romantic streak. He was everything she would ever desire in a mate. "Now go and save the nation and I'll see you later, perhaps?"

"If I get away from here tonight, it will probably be late, so don't wait for me, my darling," Mycroft's voice was still in the region of his boots. "But I wish you _pleasant_ dreams ..."

Still laughing, Cate farewelled him and ended the call. _Ah well_. Looked like tonight was just her and the twins. They should do something different for dinner, in that case, something unusual. She wondered where young Mister Parrish was; she had a question for him.

###

Back at 221B, John sat in his chair contemplating whether to have tea or a beer. The thought of a nice frosty bottle of lager was sufficiently persuasive and he went to the refrigerator. "Want one?" he asked over his shoulder as Sherlock settled in his own preferred seat, laptop in hand.

"Mmm, _yes_ , okay," the younger Holmes sounded unusually preoccupied.

"Still working on the Devereux family connections?" John looked over his friend's shoulder at the complex spreadsheet that Sherlock had been compiling since they returned from the College of Arms that morning.

"The depth-first search is taking longer than I thought it would," Sherlock accepted a chilled bottle of Stella but held it absently, at arm's length. "There are more possibilities than I imagined and I can't afford to disregard any of them until I know their present whereabouts. It's a wretched nuisance."

"How many possibilities have you got so far?" John flicked his eyes to his own laptop as well as the three spares currently all open and on the kitchen table, each one on a scrolling search through various engines, each one looking for specific names in a variety of countries and languages.

"Three definites, though their specific standing in the family pecking-order is still impossibly vague," Sherlock looked annoyed as he tasted the icy beer. He waved the bottle in the air. "And I keep coming back to James Devereux, in any case; looks like he might actually have a legit claim to the title through, of all people, his _wife_."

"The one with the horses in Sussex?" John sounded surprised. "In which case, why isn't _she_ going for the jackpot? Why would Devereux be the one to make all the moves?"

"Because this writ of inheritance was drawn up more than a hundred-and-fifty years ago, at a time when male-preference primogeniture meant that titles and property passed only through the male line," Sherlock pointed his bottle at the laptop. "But the race is about to be opened up to all and sundry, regardless of which side of the family they come from, or even which side of the blanket."

"Meaning that anyone in the family can apply for the position?"

"Not quite. They would still have to be considered a legal successor as far as their biological relationship goes, but they needn't have been a _legitimate_ heir at the time of their birth."

"Which is why the inheritance so clearly specified all _male-born_ heirs, but not necessary _legally born_ male heirs," John paused, considering the remains of his lager. "But where does Devereux fit into that?"

"Not entirely sure at the moment," Sherlock cast a practiced eye over the running search on all five laptops. "But if he can somehow trace a cognatic relationship to the late Baron's line from both his own as well as his wife's lineage, then he'd have a pretty strong case for inheritance."

"But then why would Devereux want to be involved in any kind of scheme which is forcing Mycroft to be named as the potential new incumbent?" John frowned. This made no sense at all.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and took a long pull from his bottle. "What better way to prove one's own right to the barony than to have another's claim help up for detailed inspection in the cold light of day?" he asked. "By discrediting Mycroft in the full glare of a nasty public inquisition, and there will undoubtedly be a trial by Press, even if a Royal Writ is produced ... _especially_ if a Royal Writ is produced," the younger Holmes sucked on his beer and scowled. "Then not only will Mycroft and everyone associated with the Holmes name be publicly discredited, but because the Queen's own reputation is involved, he won't be able to say or do a damned thing to save himself."

John was quiet for a moment. "The we have to stop that happening," he said. "Cate and the kids don't deserve to suffer because of Mycroft's enemies, and if this Devereux is simply using your brother as a means to an end, then we have to stop him," he paused, finishing his beer. "It's that simple."

"In theory, perhaps," Sherlock lazed back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. "But there's little point going in guns blazing if we don't also have something with which to finish Devereux's lordly ambitions once and for all."

"Like what?" John wondered idly what it would take to frighten off a man like that. If push came to shove, he'd not be above having a bit of a chat with James Devereux himself. Catch him somewhere quiet and lonely ... with a little planning, it could be done.

"Like a better candidate for the barony itself," Sherlock's attention was taken by the soft beep from one of the searching laptops. "Hang on," he said. "This may be something ..." he stretched over to peer at the paused screen.

But it was nothing; a semantic error in the search program, a different James Devereux. Hitting the _Enter_ button, he continued the search for every extant relative of the late Baron of Esgair.

###

"Oh, but I couldn't possibly," Jack Parrish smiled but shook his head. "It simply wouldn't be right."

"Nonsense," Cate grinned. "I'm absolutely positive you _should_ come and therefore, if you've not already arranged to do anything tonight, I believe you should escort me and the children to dinner."

Well ... put _that_ way.

"Very well, Mada ... Mrs Holm ... _Cate_ ," Jack took a deep breath and nodded. "Where would you like to go for dinner, and how may I facilitate the evening for you?"

"I managed to make a booking for here," she said, turning her phone so that he could see the restaurant details on the screen. "The children haven't been there before and I really want them to broaden their experiences in every way possible."

"A commendable goal," Jack nodded. "Transport?"

"We'll need a cab, and I'm going to get changed, so I suppose the twins might want to dress up, or not," Cate shrugged. "Up to them, but if you could let them know, it would save me doing it," she paused. "Did you have time to bring any spare clothes with you when my husband dragged you away from wherever you were when he found you?" she asked. "If not, then there's no need to go to any effort ... as you are is fine."

"I'll see what the young ones want to do, and I do actually have something reasonable to wear, thank you," Jack grinned. "I'll arrange a cab for fifteen minutes, would that suit? At this time of evening the traffic will be slow, so we should probably go sooner than later."

"Perfect," Cate headed for the staircase. "Just enough time to get tidied up. We should all meet down here for the taxi."

Nodding, Jack waited until Cate had walked down the passageway to the master suite before he knocked on first one and then the second of the twins' bedroom doors.

"Yes?" Jules swung his door open wide, pulling a set of headphones from his ears. There were opened books all over the floor and precious little space for anything else. No wonder he was looking forward to moving into larger quarters.

"We're all going out for dinner," Jack checked his watch. "Your mother said if you wanted to change, to be quick about it; the cab will be here in ten minutes."

Jules sniffed inside his t-shirt. "I could do with a bit of a clean-up, I suppose," he grinned. "Downstairs in five."

Blythe had already heard the conversation and needed no additional chivvying. Pulling a dark jacket on over her shirt and jeans, she slid a bright blue headband into her hair to keep it from falling into her eyes. "Ready when you two are," she smiled, already heading for the stairs.

"I'll just be a minute," Jack called over his shoulder, running up the stairs to the next floor. Pulling open the door to his wardrobe, for a moment he was tempted to slide into his formal butler's garb. It would be thrilling to do that, but perhaps this evening was not the right time. Instead, he grabbed a second dark suit and made swift work of slipping into a beautifully ironed dark-grey shirt and maroon tie over which the jacket hung with an elegant line. It was his one good suit and he didn't often get the opportunity to wear it. Dinner out with the Holmes family sounded just the thing.

The cab was right on time and they all managed to fit into the back. The restaurant was only in Harrow Road, but Jack had been correct; the traffic was on the dense side and there was a snarl on the Edgeware Road. They arrived almost ten minutes after their booking time, but he'd already phoned the place to advise them they were _enroute_ so they wouldn't lose the table.

"Where too tonight, Mum?" Jules kept track of the landmarks they'd passed. They were heading north and west, and could be going to any one of a dozen different places they'd been to before in the Wimbledon or Hampstead area. When the cab turned into Harrow Road, he grinned. This was somewhere new.

"Because your father is going to be working late tonight, we are going to be sampling the delights of Ethiopian cuisine," Cate was also watching the roads go by. "The place we're actually going to be eating at tonight specialises in serving group meals in an _Injera_ ," she said, wondering which one of the twins would be able to locate the reference the quickest.

"A communal dish served on flatbreads?"

Of course, it would be Blythe; she had her father's memory for minutia.

"Often served in a wide woven basket made from naturally coloured reeds and grasses common to the Ethiopian highlands," Jules added. "A big woven dish filled with bread and thick stews," he grinned. "Sound like fun."

"Yes, but both you and Mummy are left-handed," Blyth grinned nastily. "Technically, you're only supposed to eat with your right hand ..."

"Yeah, but that's because you would normally use your left hand to wipe your ..."

"I don't believe it will be a huge issue if your brother and I use our left hands to eat in this particular situation," Cate interrupted the incipient argument, knowing from experience how quickly these discussions could get out of control. Looking across to the hitherto silent trainee butler, she smiled. "Left or right-handed?"

Assuming a faintly smug superiority, Jack grinned. "Ambidextrous, actually," he admitted. "My writing's fractionally better with my right hand, but my left is a little more flexible. I can use either hand for heavy work or fine detail; it's always been a great help for me, whatever I was doing."

"Can you draw two circles simultaneously?" Blythe demanded. "Da Vinci could; it was said to be a mark of a perfectly bi-hemispherated brain, where he could only see a single circle in his mind, regardless that he could draw two at the same time."

Jack laughed. "I'm no Da Vinci," he grinned again. "But I can flip two pancakes at the same time."

"You're on. Breakfast tomorrow before school," Jules demanded. "We insist on proof of such bragging!"

"I think that's just a sneaky way of saying you and your sister want pancakes for breakfast," Jack nodded out through the cab's window. "Looks like we're here."

Scrambling out the kerbside door first, the tall blond held it open as first Cate, then the twins exited the vehicle. They'd stopped almost directly in front of the place, so the only walking they needed to do was brief. Jack was already paying off the cabbie even before Cate had her hand in her bag.

"Well, if you're going to pay for everything, you may as well have this," Cate handed him a black bankcard with a royal purple blaze across the centre. "It's the Holmes general account that we all dip into for everyday stuff," she added. "Paying for anything in the house. I should have thought of it earlier," she added, smiling. "The PIN's a square, square circle, square."

Examining the card as they entered the comfortably dim light of the restaurant, Jack spoke with the waiter, confirming they had a reservation in the name of _Holmes_. They were led to a very low table over to one side of the room, a round table surrounded by substantial and solid-looking floor cushions.

Leading the way, Cate sank down onto one, crossing her ankles and leaning forward to look at a menu.

"This is a Coutts card," Jack sat opposite her, his face uncertain as he held the slip of plastic in his fingers. " _Coutts_. The Queen does her banking with them."

"They have very reasonable terms and rates," Cate nodded, her attention focused on the food menu. "And an extra-long payment cycle; very handy if we've had a heavy spending month and need to shift cash around the accounts. No wonder the Queen prefers it," she added, her eyes widening as she saw something on the menu she liked the look of.

"And what's a square, square, circle, square?" Jack was still entranced by the thin black card. He'd never dreamed of having access to an account at the same bank as British royalty.

"Oh, sorry," Cate smiled, looking up from a description of mildly spiced goat's stew served with crushed peanuts. "That's how I remember pins; I use shapes, you see, as I inevitably forget numbers. Four-four-zero-four is the PIN for that card ... easier for me to remember it that way."

"Mummy's hopeless when it comes to anything numeric," Blythe was deep into the menu herself. "If you see any scribbled notes lying around the place with drawings of squares and dots and polyhedrons, for goodness sake, never throw it away; it might be the incredibly secret password to the family vault, or something."

"You're letting me use the family's bank card from Coutts?" Jack still couldn't quite take it in, he paused. "You have a family vault?"

"No vault," Cate glared at her daughter. "But yes, of course you can use the card," she finally gave the trainee butler her full attention. "Would you rather I didn't?" her dark eyes met grey ones. "Does it make you feel uncomfortable?"

"No, nothing likes that," Jack screwed up his face. "But it does rather imply a great deal of trust, and you've only known me a matter of days."

"Are you telling me you're not to be trusted?" Cate smiled, her eyebrows raised in amusement.

"No, it's just that ... this is _Coutts_ " Jack said, laying the card reverently on the table.

"And the PIN is square, square, circle, square," Blythe nodded. "Now can we _please_ order something; I don't think I've eaten today."

"Everything goes on the card, Jack," Cate laid a careful hand on his arm. "Consider yourself part of the family no matter how short your stay with us might be," she smiled and turned back to the menu, looking to see what the twins fancied.

Jack felt a strange tightness in his chest. This was how he wished his own family had been; friendly and warm and welcoming ... instead of ...

"I can't make up my mind," Jules frowned. "It all sounds good and I'm feeling quite starved right now."

"I'd like to try the lamb and the goat and the spiced chickpeas," Blythe held her stomach as it grumbled emptily.

"What about you, Jack?" Cate still fancied a try at the stewed goat.

"I rather like the look of some of the different vegetables," he admitted. "If you approve of them, I could adapt the recipes for dinner one night."

"Then I suggest we go the whole hog and order one of those big central dishes," Cate closed the menu. "That way, we all get to try what we want and Jack can have a think about making it at home."

Ordering several entrées as well as the variegated main meal and a large jug of the restaurant's special non-alcoholic _Cocalime_ , Cate decided to tell everyone about Tulip Lawson's visit the following afternoon.

"And I think it a far more sensible idea for each of you to sit down with the woman and tell her in your own words what you would like to have in the space that can be allocated to you," she said. "There are a few things I've already told her I would want, which is for you both to have an ensuite bathroom and a small, practical kitchen area, even if you decide you don't want to use it right now, I'm fairly sure you will in the future," Cate added. "There are also safety and security issues to be addressed, so there will have to be an emergency exit in both apartments, as well as properly secured windows and burglar alarms, and you know how your father is about security, so there's no getting away from that aspect, I'm afraid."

"I've already agreed to go to Uncle Sherlock's after school tomorrow," Blythe nibbled fastidiously at a tiny square of spiced pastry. "I said I'd go straight there after we finished early. We're going to do some experiments on the anaerobic digestion of human flesh."

" _Human_ flesh?" Cate was the veteran of far too many Holmesian idiosyncrasies to be even remotely shocked at Sherlock's experiments anymore, but she wondered where he'd got the samples. Hopefully he hadn't stolen them; that would be simply too macabre.

"No _really_ human," Blythe picked unconcernedly at a spicy dip. "Swine-flesh, it decomposes in a way almost identical to human remains."

"I appreciate the delights of rotting bodies far outweigh the boring demands of designing your own living quarters, but can you come home first and talk to the architect before you go and see your uncle?" Cate watched her daughter nibble at the entrées exactly as her father would. "It _is_ for your own space, after all," she added. "It won't take long and you can go around to Baker Street afterwards."

"Yeah, that makes sense," Blythe smiled and looked expectant. "It's all quite exciting, really."

"Can we honestly have anything we want?" Jules sampled one of the bit-sized sambosas that had been brought to the table. "Seriously?"

"Your father and I aren't going to be building any trapeze rigs in the ceiling or installing industrial lab equipment," Cate smiled, "but yes; within reason, you can tell Ms Lawson what you want and if she can fit it in for you, then you can have it. Just remember, whatever you choose, you are going to have to live with until you have the money to change it yourself."

"So I can have my tall windows?" Jules looked pleased.

"If we can lift at least some of the present windows without damaging the structural integrity of the roof, then I don't see why not," Cate leaned back as a waiter brought over a simply _enormous_ round woven platter, easily two feet in diameter, covered with all manner of flat breads and small heaps of different-coloured stews spaced equidistantly around the platter.

"Everyone know how to eat this stuff?" Jack tore off a small portion of bread, scooped up a chunk of some dark-red spicy paste and popped the whole thing into his mouth. "It's a really practical way to eat," he smiled, watching as both twins dived in. "Wastes nothing and very good for the hungry traveller who might happen to be passing anywhere along the North African coast," he added, lifting his eyes to Cate as she watched her offspring ploughing into the savoury food.

"I think you might have a job for life trying to keep these two fed," Cate laughed as she tore some of the soft bread for herself. "Don't wait on ceremony, Jack," she indicated the platter. "Get in while you still can before these two scoff the lot."

"We can always order a little more," Jules was in fact using both hands, regardless of custom. "This is really spicy," he grinned. The hotter the better as far as he was concerned.

"Take notes, please Jack," Blythe licked a thumb. "This would be great for a weekend; I'd love to watch Daddy trying to navigate his way around one of these," she shared a glance and a quiet cackle with her twin.

"Evil child," Cate shook her head and scooped up a different mix.

Jack suddenly felt a sudden wave of deflation at the realisation he might not be around the Holmes family long enough to do this again. There was almost a sense of loss about it. He took a deep breath and tore off another fragment of bread, dipping it into a different one of the stews.

"Everything okay?" Cate had heard the sigh.

"Everything's fine," Jack smiled... but only on the outside.

###

Mycroft sat in the darkened shadows of his office. He often thought better in the dimness, when outlines of things were blurred and unclear, and where there was no single point of light to distract the contemplative mind. He had been in many similar positions as this in the past, endless instances when he had been required to pit his mind and intellect against a variety of clever opponents. Invariably, he'd been successful, when the stakes could be weighed with from an icily objective perspective and when the only thing he had occasionally risked had been his life. But this situation was different. _This_ situation, if it went pear-shaped, would damage not only the constitutional monarchy of Britain, but also himself, Cate and the twins, and in the worst of ways. Blythe and Jules would be tagged with the infamy of the situation for the rest of their lives, and it would be _he_ who would bring this down on their heads if he couldn't work out exactly what Devereux was planning and then find a way to stop him.

Unrealised, his upper lip had curled into a _moue_ of self-disgust. Momentarily tempted to phone Sherlock for some nicely articulated defamation of character as a pleasant change from the rancorous self-beration he'd endured since the second letter arrived at the Palace, Mycroft blinked hard and shook his head. Leaning forward onto his desk, he rested his chin on linked fingers. Had he always been able to take the logical, clinical approach towards the resolution of any problem no matter how personal things had become ... but _this_ time ... this time he was caught between two polarised demands of equal personal weight. One the one hand, there was his deep and abiding loyalty to the service and protection of the Royal Family, yet, on the other, there was the boundless care and protection of his _own_ family. In previous dilemmas, he'd always been able to weigh up the costs in favour of Queen and Country ... but _this_ time ...

Perhaps then, it really was time for him to consider a retirement from the role he'd held for the larger part of his adult life. Perhaps he'd reached the place where the demands of the job needed someone with fewer emotional ties to bring their decision-making to a stuttering halt. He rubbed a hand roughly over his face.

"You've been sitting there thinking bad thoughts for nearly seven hours," Anthea walked in with a tray of tea things. "I know this is a difficult one for you, especially as you're trying so hard to keep Cate and the twins out of it all, but you need to stop dwelling on what you can't do, and focus more closely on what you are actually able to achieve."

Mycroft looked up at his dark-haired assistant, the faintest line of a smile lifting his mouth.

"Is this your version of a pep-talk?" he asked absently, watching as she poured the tea. Lifting a flat bottle lying on the tray, Anthea poured a generous dollop of it into his cup.

"No," she said, wiggling the bottle for him to see. "This is. Don't worry," she added, "it's not the good stuff."

"I don't need alcohol to think," he said.

"This is not about making you think," Anthea checked the bottle. "And it's barely even alcohol," she frowned at the label. "A bit of rotgut I found stashed away in the kitchen; probably used for cleaning drains."

"The poisoning of one's direct supervisor has not been a terribly successful promotion route since the Borgias," he said, lifting his cup and sipping the hot brew. He wrinkled his nose. Most definitely not the good stuff.

Even diluted in the tea, the high-proof alcohol burned at his throat, filling his sinuses with a heady, alcoholic vapour and making his eyes water. He gasped as the burn flowed down inside his chest and belly. Almost immediately, he felt a little more awake and alert.

"This is quite revolting," he said, taking another sip. "I may need some more before the night is out," he added, pushing the tea things to one side and reaching for his laptop.

"But in the interim, I want a meeting with the special analyst team heads. I want to know what we have and what we know as of _this_ moment. Five minutes." Lifting his head, Mycroft looked a little fierce.

Smiling, Anthea pocketed the bottle. "Sir," she said, already on her phone to the team. It sounded very much as if the shit was about to hit the fan.

About time, too.

###

Her father had still not returned home as she dressed for school the following morning, just as Blythe realised it was long past time for her to have a haircut, unless, of course, she was about to start growing it again. It was nice when it was down past her shoulders, but it was incredibly time-consuming and necessitated all manner of effort to keep it tidied away so it wouldn't become a bother whenever she was doing anything non-hair related. She was sorely tempted to simply take a pair of shears to the whole lot and wear a hat for the few months it would take to grow out again.

She'd done it before.

But right now, she didn't even have time to do that, so grabbed the bright blue headband she'd worn the previous night to the restaurant and pulled the thick length of hair back and away from her face. She shoved a handful of clips in her pocket in case she wanted to do something else with it later when she went to her uncle's, but it would do for now.

On bright sunny days, the twins often walked the almost two miles to school; it only took them about forty minute and gave them both an opportunity to get in a spot of people-watching. Sometimes they'd stroll up to the Bond Street tube and take the Jubilee Line down to Westminster. But today it was tipping down outside, so they had the luxury of a ride to school.

Being a Friday and heading toward the end-of-term exams, this was a half-day for non-boarders. The morning began with double English for them both, but as they'd read their way through the school's entire English curricula before they were seven, there really wasn't much work for them to do. Blythe had elected instead to wade her way through a pile of Formalist Russian literature, some of it in the original Slavic, though she was the first to admit she used a dictionary at times. Julius had gone more towards nineteenth-century romanticism, and was currently deciphering the mad metaphors of the Symbolist poets. After break, he had double Japanese, while Blythe headed off to the Physics labs.

"Don't wait for me to go home," she told her twin at the end of the English class. "I'm meeting Landry before I leave today; I want to explain to him why we have to cool things for a while."

"You want some backup or are you okay with it all?" Jules knew his sister was one of the most competent individuals he'd ever know, and more than capable of handling all manner of unpleasantness it the conversation became less than cordial. Plus, if the meeting were on school grounds, Blythe wouldn't be alone. There wasn't much she'd need any help _with_ , but it was a brother's job to offer, regardless.

Blythe smiled a little sadly. "No. I doubt it'll be a long conversation, but I don't want to hold you up; I know how much you want to speak to the architect about your new bachelor pad," she grinned.

Observing her faintly unhappy expression, Jules realised that even though their father might have his reasons, it wouldn't be easy for Bly to simply ignore Landry just like that. "If you're sure?" he didn't like to see her upset, no matter the cause.

"Go, _silly_ ," Blythe pushed his shoulder. "I'll probably be about half-an-hour behind you, if that, but I'd rather do this by myself, I think."

"'K," Jules waved at her over his shoulder as he headed for the language studios. "Catch you later."

The physics class passed in a mild blur as she dragged her way through a rather tedious college text on particle physics; it wasn't half as good as the Boyarkin one she'd read before Christmas. But finally it was over and after dumping her books back in her locker, she headed over to the student Common Room. The place would be busy at this time of day, but once she'd found Landry, they could find somewhere more private to talk.

Blythe shivered. This was the first time she'd ever knowingly gone into a meeting with someone she knew she could never trust again, simply to get information from them. It made her feel a little melancholy, but it had to be done; she had to find out what was going on between Landry and his father, and especially how whatever they were doing affected her own family.

"Heya gorgeous," Landry's warm tones made her skin prickle as usual. Blythe blinked slowly before turning to greet him, a smile across her face. "Hi yourself," she said, her voice deliberately light and happy.

"Want to find somewhere a little more quiet?" he asked. "The labs will be empty by now."

"Sure," Blythe nodded as if pleased. "How's your father? I know you two don't get to meet often, so I suppose you had a long talk about everything last night."

"Oh, you know," Landry shrugged. "The usual stuff about keeping my marks up and how Oxford is always over-subscribed in the Classics and all that. I told him I quite liked the idea of Leicester; they have a really great Humanities and Arts school there, easily as good as anything Oxford can offer," he shrugged again. "But my dad wants it to be Oxford or nothing."

"Mine's the same," Blythe pushed a door open into a deserted chem lab.

"But now we're in private," Landry grinned widely as he swooped down and wrapped his arms around her. "Maybe we can continue where we left off the other night ..."

His lips pressed soft and dry against her mouth.

"That's nice," Blythe resisted an almost overwhelming urge to bring him to his knees, squealing with pain. "But here's not really the place for ... that kind of thing, is it?"

"You want to go somewhere _really_ private ... maybe out of school somewhere?" Landry raised his eyebrows, a lazy smile on his face.

"Maybe," Blythe looked up at him, feeling more and more repulsed by his transparent duplicity. "But I think your father might not like it any more than mine does."

"Ah, my dad is too wrapped up in his power-games and empire-building to worry much about what I'm doing these days," Landry grinned suddenly as an idea seemed to strike him. "Want to come to my mum's place for afternoon tea? I can escort you there and back to London even before it gets dark," his face was animated. "Oh, _do_ say yes," his grin got even wider. "It only takes an hour from Victoria Station and I'm sure my mother would love to meet you," he rested both hands on her shoulders.

Blythe thought. If she went with Landry, there was an hour's travel each way which she could spend getting him to talk about his family and especially about his father's _empire-building_ activities. It might be worth the discomfort of his company, as long as she managed to refrain from beating him up in public. She smiled darkly as she thought of all the nasty things her mother had taught her how to do.

"You phone your parent to see if it's all okay for me to come to tea, and then I'll phone mine and see if it's okay with her," Blythe folded her arms.

"Done," Landry had his mobile in his hand even before she'd finished. "Hi, Mum," he smiled, watching Blythe's face as he talked. "I'd like to bring a friend home for tea, if that's alright with you," he said. "Her name's Blythe Holmes and she's from school. I'll need to bring her back to London afterwards."

There was a soft murmur at the other end of the conversation.

"And you can pick us up from the station when I call?"

Another soft murmur.

"Great," Landry's grin got even wider. "We'll probably be there around three or so. Okay then, _bye_." Ending the call and returning the phone to his trouser pocket, Landry nodded at her. "Your turn."

Smiling, Blythe speed-dialled a number on her on Nokia. "Hello Mummy," she said, her eyes on Landry's the entire time. "Landry Banister has invited me to have tea with him at his mother's place in Pulborough," she said. "Mrs Banister is fine with me coming, but I wanted to check you are happy for me to go. Landry's escorting me back to London before it gets dark."

There was an urgent-sounding response from the handset at her ear.

"No, back _before_ dark. I'll have to cancel my other arrangements for this afternoon, though," she said. "Unless you could ring Uncle Sherlock for me?"

Yet another staccato reply murmured into the room.

"That's great then," Blythe smiled. "I'll see you later. _Bye_."

As she turned to meet Landry Banister's gaze, Blythe knew she was committed; whatever was to happen, she would see it through. But she had something of a secret weapon up her sleeve.

It hadn't been her mother she had just called, it had been her brother. Jules would know what to do. He'd keep the lid on things for as long as he could and then he'd tell everyone where she was, by which time it'd be too late to stop her. She was bound to be able to find something out before the end of the day.

She smiled.

Landry smiled back.

It hadn't been his mother who had answered his call. It had been his father.


	9. Chapter 9

_Julius – The Eloquence of Dust – Sub Rosa – Hitting the Fan –The Grilling Begins – Into Sussex – Mycroft Decides – Revelations of the Brotherly Kind._

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#

Julius replaced the phone in his jacket pocket and closed his eyes with a groan of frustration. He was half-tempted to call Blythe straight back and tell her he'd changed his mind and that it really _wasn't_ a good idea for her to head off into darkest Sussex with Landry Banister. She had been told, quite categorically by their father, she was not to see the Banister boy and Dad didn't make those kinds of demands without a very good reason. Jules chewed his bottom lip as he wondered if he'd just made a massive mistake in agreeing to his sister's impromptu plan. Not that she couldn't take care of herself. Since they were infants their mother had been teaching them the legitimate and graceful art of Hapkido as well as the illegitimate and extremely ruthless science of self-defence. Were anyone to have a go at his sister, he'd be more concerned about the attacker's welfare than hers and if it were _Landry_ ... Jules smiled crookedly. Anyone who pushed their luck too far with Blythe would end up in the hospital and then, of course, whoever it was would get a little visit from Blythe's _brother_.

But still.

Turning on his heel, Jules about-faced with the idea of walking back to school, but then he stopped, realising they would already have left. Most likely headed for Victoria Station with trains heading out into Sussex and the South-west. The place was massively spread-out over nineteen platforms and they could be anywhere. It was even possible that they might be being picked up by car ... three seconds after putting his phone away; Jules pulled it out again and hit Blythe's speed-dial.

_The number you have called is not available at this time._

Bloody hell and _damn_. Jules sighed hugely. After calling him, she'd immediately turned her phone off to ensure nobody could stop her before she was ready. He knew his twin as well as he knew himself and Blythe had done exactly what he would have.

There was nothing for it now but to get home and face the music. There was no point even attempting to cover this up; for good or bad, Blythe had gone off the deep end this time.

Taking a deep breath and securing his backpack a little more tightly, Jules began to jog.

###

Mycroft blinked slowly. Managing without sleep for a night, even two when necessary, was not an issue after so many years of enduring such occasional but inevitable need. But even after spending the last thirty-six hours going through everything his team of analysts had been able to pull out from the two letters and the enclosed photographs, there was almost nothing solid upon which to hang a justifiable accusation. After verifying the technical aspects of the photographs, his people had turned their collective attention to the accompanying letters, the paper, the printed words, the language, latent fingerprints … anything. But virtually nothing of use had been revealed about the author of the missives. Whoever it was had been extraordinarily careful; probably wrapped themselves up in a full HAZMAT suit to avoid leaving any convenient clues such as hair or skin samples.

 _Was Devereux involved?_ Yes; the man's name cropped up in three separate instances. It was impossibly coincidental to be merely coincidence. Was there a more deeply hidden agenda beneath all of this? _Obviously_. One would not go to all this planning and effort to either steal or inveigle such sensitive materials in the first place without having a clear plan of how they were to be used. That there were possibly multiple objectives in the scheme was where the picture began to go a little blurry at the edges. Was this entire gambit merely a ruse to embarrass the Queen and himself? If so, to what ends? And if public embarrassment was all there were to it, there were far easier ways; he himself would have opted for compromising photographs if scandal was the only objective, so there _had_ to be more. That apart from the demand that the barony be offered, there had been no other demands for money or services, not any exhortation of political, religious or personal grievances, suggested that this entire thing was based on some personal need or desire, but if so, then what? That there was also a clear determination to hold up the entire British honours system to international and extremely public ridicule seemed equally clear, though the rationale was not, as yet, properly established.

Sitting at his desk, Mycroft stared in dissatisfaction at the two Polaroid photographs, each one laid carefully within a soft and completely transparent envelope. He had been glowering at these two images for several minutes, as if he knew they had something more to tell him, but couldn't quite hear what it was they had to say.

He stared. Each photograph was of a letter. Each letter was on Palace-headed paper, from the desk of the Queen herself. Each letter was no more than three paragraphs in length, both documents ending in the fully validated signature of Her Majesty.

Shaking his head in annoyance, Mycroft looked at the background in the photos behind the document, not that there was much to see since the letters took up virtually all the available space.

The consensus was that each letter had been photographed while lying more-or-less flat on a flat surface. The nature of that surface was almost impossible to discern, save that it was darker than the pale material of the letters themselves, yet not so dark as to be an invisible blackness. He could just make out a sliver of coloured background behind the second document, a long and narrow triangle with a faint golden-reddish tint. What might that be? Possibly some kind of painted surface? The lighting of both photos was clearly that of an internal exposure; neither had been taken outdoors. So what might be an internal flat surface of this possible colour?

Moving across to his laptop, Mycroft pulled up a digitised image of the second photograph, zooming in on the wafer-thin sliver of colour. Magnifying it as high as the software would allow, he squinted at it as closely as he possibly could.

 _Wood_. The faintest of grains was just visible to the naked eye. At least one of the letters had been laid out on a wooden table to be photographed; he could even see a suggestion of timber grain in the tiny section of background visible in the image. He sat back, the slightest sense of triumph uncoiling in his chest.

If Devereux was involved, and he patently was, then such an ego as his would never permit either of these documents out of his immediate grasp. These photographs _had_ to have been taken at a location where the man felt himself to be safe and where his activities would be private and without oversight. Whether he had taken the pictures himself, or had another do it didn't matter; what mattered was that they had been taken in a place that Devereux felt secure. His office or his home or club.

And if a certain wooden table were to be found at any of these locations, it might be possible to check three very distinctive details. Organic surfaces retained the faintest of temporary bleaches when exposed to the bright light of a camera flash. It didn't last long, and washed out in bright sunlight, but the weather these last few days had been overcast, and with luck, this place might be shaded. It might still be possible to see the darker silhouette of anything that had been photographed lying across its flat top.

The second detail which had Mycroft's mouth curve a little at one side was the fact that wood-grain was almost as distinctive as human fingerprints. If these photographs could be enhanced to reveal even a fraction of the wood in greater detail, it might be possible to match it to any potential wooden surfaces located at Devereux's boltholes.

And then there was the DNA. Both the distinctive paper of the letters as well as the wood itself, was organic. All organic substances shed degraded matter ... _dust_. Mycroft smiled. As his brother was fond of saying, dust was indeed eloquent.

If the entire combined resources of the British security services were unable to find a wooden table that tied these photos to James Devereux, then it was just as well he'd browbeaten his way into a lucrative publishing deal. He might be needing the income.

Lifting the red phone, Mycroft Holmes summoned his experts and set them firmly onto Devereux's trail.

###

The endlessly detailed computer search had not yet concluded. Not only had each potential candidate for the barony of Esgair to be checked along both maternal and paternal lines of descent, but also for primogeniture within their own immediate family. If a first cousin had a slightly stronger claim from either an agnate or distaff relative, then the lineage-claims of parentage, siblings _and_ children must also be unravelled before they could be dismissed from the search. It was an atrociously complex process and agonisingly slow. Had it not been for the fact that Sherlock had now brought in another five laptops, begged and borrowed from a variety of sources, the search might well have taken weeks.

In addition to the potential legitimate claimants, there were also the _illegitimate_ ones, those ancestral descendants of the Baron's family who stemmed from natural relationships rather than those of a more formalised character. And on top of all this, there were the inevitable syntax and grammatical search errors; people whose names had been incorrectly spelled in national records, or whose marriage hadn't been correctly noted in the archives of both families concerned. It was equally incredible to note the sheer number of _James Devereuxs_ there were currently extant in the British Isles.

In short, it was a bloody nightmare.

Sherlock had entered an apparent fugue-state several hours earlier and John watched as the tall man sat unnaturally still in his chair, only the faintest of chest movements confirming he was still breathing.

The silence, which had begun the previous day, had stretched out for far too long now, and even the usually phlegmatic doctor felt his nerves strained to their farthest limits. If he didn't move, or just _do_ something, he was going to start biting the furniture.

"Right then," John stood, booth voice and sudden movement shattering the deep silence. "I've had about as much of this as I can handle for one day," he said. "I'm getting lunch in for a change; what do you fancy? Indian or Chinese?"

"Nothing for me, thanks," Sherlock's voice was as soft as dust. "You know I've never wanted to eat while we're on a case."

John knew only too well that his friend and partner–in-crime would run himself ragged if he was left to fend for himself. Nodding, he pulled out his phone and ordered sufficient food for two. Even if Sherlock didn't eat today, he might eat tomorrow.

"You know, if you told Mycroft what we're actually doing for him, I dare say he'd arrange access for you to one of those incredibly fast super-computers," John raised his eyebrows. "I understand that he's not prepared for anyone to get on the inside track in an investigation involving the Queen, but if you told him what you'd uncovered so far, then surely ..."

"My brother, though vastly irritating at times, is also a vastly intelligent man, John," Sherlock still hadn't moved from his meditative-like position. "But even those of vast intelligence usually have at least one or two blind-spots," he blinked rapidly and sighed. "And anything whatsoever to do with British royals is one of Mycroft's," he shook his head wearily. "The moment he thought we might be endangering his own investigation he'd have us shut down and all our research confiscated for the duration … no," Sherlock shook his head again. "Until we have something concrete to give him, this has to be done _sub rosa_."

"Then in that case, I'm giving everything a break and having something to eat," John stood up and looked serious. "And so should you. The computers are doing their thing and you need a rest."

Looking up at his blond friend, Sherlock smiled a little. Always the mother hen. But perhaps a bite or two wouldn't hurt in under the circumstances; there was unlikely to be any major breakthrough in the immediate future in any case. "Did you get anything from the tandoor?" he asked.

"Would I order anything else for you?" John grinned.

There was a faint beep from one of the laptops as it paused on yet another potential candidate for the Esgair inheritance. Sherlock was up and at the table the moment the faint sound caught his ear.

Another James Devereux. _Unbelievable_. Sherlock scowled in annoyance until his eyes noticed one of the other associated names in the extended listing of secondary and tertiary search parameters. _Banister_. Devereux's semi-estranged wife was Sheila Banister, mother of one Landry Banister, _erstwhile boyfriend of Blythe Holmes_.

Still scowling, Sherlock leaned in closer, reading all that there was to read in a matter of a few seconds. There was almost nothing he hadn't already seen. _Almost_ nothing _._

But there was _something_. And it was a very intriguing something indeed.

Selecting a screen-dump, Sherlock hit _Print_.

###

Tulip Lawson took a seat at the kitchen table as Cate bustled around making tea for them both. Jack had vanished back up into the attics almost as soon as the twins had left for school, only popping downstairs to see if there was anything that needed doing. He'd already decided on herbed pork with a stir-fry of vegetables for dinner, so there was nothing demanding his presence in the kitchen until later, which was fine. It meant Cate actually had the chance to get in and make her own tea for a change. The trainee butler was so keen to help that she'd had to look and see where everything was, a situation exacerbated by the fact that Jack had made one or two _minor_ changes to the way the kitchen was organised. Still, Cate had to admit, the changes made sense. And she could always change things back when the young man left to continue his quest for butlering nirvana elsewhere.

"The twins should be home from school shortly," Cate poured tea. "I'm sure they already know exactly what they want, but you'll have to be clear with them if what _they_ want and what can be _done_ are mutually exclusive."

"Don't worry," Tulip laughed. "I've been through a few of these conversions involving teenagers, and I have a fairly good feel for the kind of things they might want. I'm sure everything will be fine."

Cate wasn't so certain. "My daughter is almost certainly going to request a large laboratory space with commercial-sized freezers built into the walls, just as my son is almost equally certainly going to be looking for a James Bond-style retractable skylight in the roof for his art studio," Cate shook her head. "I'm happy to give them anything that will stand the test of time, but please don't allow them to bully you; they can be most compelling when they put their mind to something," she added. "Just like their father," Cate smiled at the thought as she sipped her tea.

The architect was not unobservant.

"Given that you plan on renovating the guest rooms on the first floor once the children have moved into their respective hobbit-holes, I could maybe do you a deal on renovating your Master suite as well," Tulip's face was the epitome of innocence. "Something romantic and indulgent, with a double bath and some really spectacular mood lighting, perhaps?"

Cate allowed her eyes to widen as she thought of a new bedroom designed with seduction in mind. "You are a very bad woman," she said eventually, over the rim of her cup.

"So that's a possible yes, is it?" Tulip grinned cheerfully.

"That a possible _perhaps_ ," Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Depending just how big a financial heap I'm going to have to shell out for everything else first ... though," she shrugged noncommittally. "I admit it does sound intriguing."

The front door clicked open and closed.

"That's the children," Cate nodded. "If you could speak to Blythe first as she's probably going to want to dash off to her uncle's in about five minutes, so that would be ..." she stopped as Jules walked into the kitchen. Alone.

Even without words, Cate knew that something was wrong. His face not yet anxious, but Jules was clearly on the brink of genuine unease. Putting her cup down with a soft _clink_ , Cate raised her eyebrows. "What?"

Dropping his backpack on the floor, Jules took a large breath.

"Blythe has gone to Sussex to have tea with Landry Banister and his mother," he said. "She rang me and said she'd be back before dark, that Landry was going to bring her back to London afterwards and that Mrs Banister was fine with Blythe going to her place for tea," he added.

"And why didn't Blythe ring me or her father about this?" Cate frowned. Blythe was normally the more sensible and logical of the two of them. If she had wanted to go off with one of her friends, it was no big problem, though Cate had insisted that at least one parent was to be informed before any such trip was undertaken.

Jules stood still, the faintly stricken expression on his face making it clear he knew there were choppy waters ahead.

"I'll just head downstairs to the basement to check on the measurements," Tulip smiled and excused herself from what was clearly shaping up to be a difficult family discussion.

As soon as the architect had left them alone, Jules sat down at the table. He took another deep breath.

"Dad told Bly not to have anything to do with James Landry."

Cate nodded. This much Mycroft had already said.

"Bly thinks it's because Landry and his father, James Devereux, are somehow mixed up in whatever the problem is that's making Daddy consider resigning," his hazel eyes never left hers. "I think she's gone with Landry to Sussex to find out what she can about the situation so that she can bring the information back and so that Daddy isn't going to be forced into retirement or anything else he doesn't want to do ..." his voice lapsed into silence as he waited for his mother to speak.

"Your sister has gone off with the young man she met at school because she believes him to be involved in some nefarious scheme involving your father?" Cate held a palm to her forehead as she tried to take it all in. "Why on earth didn't you stop her?"

"She rang me to say what she was going to do and then hung up and by the time I phoned her back, she'd turned her own phone off," Jules looked grim. "There was little point going to Victoria Station as they could have been anywhere, and I didn't want to try and explain all this to you or Daddy on the phone because I know how you'd ..." he paused, looking into the troubled eyes of his mother, "react."

Scrabbling in her bag for her own Nokia, Cate pressed the requisite keys.

_The number you have called is not available at this time._

Ah, Blythe …

Considering her remaining options, Cate bit her lip before taking as deep a breath as her son … and speed-dialled Mycroft.

###

They just made the 2.15 train on Platform Two just as the doors were being closed and whistles were being blown. Luckily, as it was the middle of the day, the train wasn't packed and Blythe and Landry were able to find a pair of reasonably isolated seats.

Sliding his fingers between hers to hold her hand, Landry grinned, an air of excitement about him.

"Mum's going to be really happy to see you," he smiled. "She keeps telling me I should bring friends home."

Keeping her face in a calm, agreeable expression, Blythe loosened her fingers from his, adjusting her headband and combing through her fine dark-brown hair. "Then I shall be sure to make a good impression," Blythe smiled. "Will your father be there?"

Caught, Landry couldn't very well lie outright or Blythe would recognise the untruth the minute she saw his father waiting for them at the station. "He might be," he extemporised. "He wasn't there earlier, but he comes and goes as suits him, so he might be there later," he nodded, pleased to have gotten out of that particular little awkwardness.

Blythe felt her expression turning into the same, vaguely shark-like one her father used when someone said something unspeakably stupid within earshot. She couldn't help it; no matter how she tipped her head forward and strained to keep her mouth straight, the corners curved up she held Landry's gaze from under her eyebrows. How had she ever felt any kind of friendship for this _oaf?_ Not only was he a shockingly bad liar, even, if such a thing was possible, worse than her mother, but an unimaginative one as well, which made the whole thing entirely too tedious and boorish. The urge to laugh at his uninspired efforts made her bite the inside of her cheek until the pain returned her to a certain level of _gravitas_.

"Oh well, if he's there, it will be nice to meet him as well as your mother. Will we be able to look at the horses?"

"Sure," Landry sounded pleased. "It's one of the only good things about living out in the wilds of Sussex," he said. "Plenty of room for riding," he turned to her, a calculating tone in his voice. "You _ride_ , do you?' he grinned.

Resisting a growing temptation to visit great pain upon a very delicate part of his anatomy, Blythe smiled again as if his increasingly repulsive creepiness was not in the least off-putting. Now that her eyes had been opened to his unexpected deviousness, she was observing all manner of unpleasant little habits she'd never really noticed before. No wonder Jules hadn't always been impressed by her admirer.

But that was then and this was now, Blythe realised she needed to start getting information if this trip was to be any use at all.

"So tell me more about your parents," she demanded, leaning her arm casually against his. "I know your mother trains racehorses, but what does your father do?"

"Well, technically, he's something in the National Crime Agency, but that's only part of what he really does," Landry looked thoughtful and tried to catch her fingers again.

Blythe managed a deft evasion.

"But what else can he possibly do if he's in such an important national service?" she sounded quite legitimately puzzled. "Isn't it all official secrets act and meetings in underground carparks? What else can he possibly do beyond that?" She batted her eyelashes.

Landry laughed. "Oh, Dad has a whole range of international investments and things going on behind the scenes," he said. "Some of them are really important."

Nodding reflectively, Blythe allowed a second curious look to mould her face. "Then why is my father telling me to have nothing to do with you?" she asked. "Does my father know your father? Do they work together in the Agency?"

"Not that I know of," Landry frowned and shook his head. "Technically, Dad's a Civil Servant, even though he does a lot of private travelling for his other business ventures. I'm not sure he'd even heard of your dad."

"Well, my parent has heard of yours," Blythe sighed. "If only I could pinpoint what it is your father is involved in that's upsetting mine, then I could clear the whole thing up and there'd be nothing stopping … _us_ ," she smiled innocently, resting her fingertips on the back of his hand.

"Well, there might be one thing that Dad's been involved with recently," Landry made a face. "Not that I know much about it, though."

"Oh _do_ say," Blythe turned in her seat until she was staring up into a pair of pale grey eyes. "I can't bear the idea that there might be something really silly standing between us like the Capulets and Montagues," she sat back, folding her arms and pouting. "My father is a total fascist at times."

"Mine too," Landry grinned again, locating her hand and holding it fast this time. "I know Dad's got some plans about something to do with an inheritance; I've seen envelopes come through the post for him with return addresses to places like the College of Arms and all kinds of places that do genealogical searches. I think Dad may have found out he's related to someone important."

"But why would that upset my father?" Blythe's mind raced ahead of her words. She had known for years that her father was deeply involved with British security and all manner of anti-terrorism organisations. It took no great stretch of the imagination that his job in Whitehall might also involve him with not merely the security of the nation and the national interests, but also and quite naturally, of the family ostensibly at the nation's head. The only thing that might make sense of her father's vehemence towards James Devereux was if the man represented some kind of threat or obstacle to her father's role. But what that threat or obstacle might be, she had no clue.

She needed more data.

"Tell me about your mother, then," she said, artlessly.

She even remembered to smile.

###

In the middle of making a sandwich with some garlic naan and a dollop of Rogan josh, John registered that Sherlock's phone was ringing. "That's your phone," he mumbled around a hot mouthful.

" _Mmm_ ..." Sherlock had returned to his chair and his contemplations.

The phone rang again.

"It's one of the twins, you know," the blond man added, at the sound of the ringtone.

"Mmm ... Jules," Sherlock leaned his chin onto his hand, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Might be important," John raised his eyes as he sucked in the steamy aroma of a carton of Chicken Razala.

Heaving a sigh and rolling his eyes, Sherlock made a long arm and reached for his phone. " _Yes?_ "

There was extended discourse from the initiator of the conversation.

Sherlock sat up in increments.

"Does your father know?"

An equally long quantity of speech ensured. Sherlock drew in a long, slow breath.

"Has there been any other contact?"

The interchange proceeded haltingly and finally ended.

"Tell your mother not to worry and that John and I will bring her home before dark," Sherlock finished, ending the call and standing upright, his eyes apologetic as they cast themselves over John's lunch.

With a forkful of rice and creamy savoury sauce half-way to his mouth, John's shoulders slumped. "We sit on our arses for almost two days and then the minute I get something to eat, you're going to try and drag me off to do something, aren't you?" he ate the food with dogged determination.

"This problem Mycroft finds himself in is due, at least in part, to the machinations of James Devereux, which argues someone with major personality issues, not the least of which is a pathological determination to achieve his own ends regardless of collateral damage, be that personal or public," Sherlock strode towards the door and his coat.

"Yeah?" John sat back, waiting for the inevitable call to arms that meant he'd be expected to abandon yet another meal for the sake of Sherlock's appetite for the dramatic.

"It seems my niece may become embroiled in the fallout if someone is unable to stop her; she's taken off to Pulborough on what appears to be a personal reconnaissance of Landry Banister, youngest son of Devereux and the boyfriend Mycroft refused her permission to see."

Blythe landing herself in serious danger? John was surprised at his surprise; she was a _Holmes_ , after all. Without realising, he had risen to his feet, already moving towards his jacket. Nobody messed with those kids if he had any say in it. Anyone who even _looked_ at Jules and Blythe in the wrong tone of voice, and both their father and uncle would have to crawl over him to get dibs on the offender. What was left of the offender.

"Well, come on, then," after a swift detour to his room for a few essential items, John was already out the door and clattering down the stairs.

"I've got the address in Sussex," Sherlock sounded ever so slightly hesitant.

"Problem?" John patted his pocket, feeling the hard contours of one particular essential item as he clambered into the cab.

"Victoria Station," Sherlock instructed, before turning to his friend. "Not a problem as such, though it's going to take over an hour to get there ... but Mycroft's people will probably be on their way too and if they see us, then our involvement in the rest of the case will be out."

"As long as we get there before any harm is done," John stared grimly out through the front windscreen. "Then I don't really much care what else happens."

Nodding, Sherlock sat back in the wide seat of the cab, already wondering how he might capitalise on this unexpected visit to the Devereux-Banister property. It would be a shame to go all the way out there and return with only his niece. Who knew what data might be simply lying around, waiting to be inadvertently picked up by some passer-by? Blythe was a quick study; she'd be able to take a hint and create all sorts of diversions for him if he wanted.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop it," John angled his head towards his friend. "You're cackling and it's unnerving."

"I do not cackle," Sherlock was surprised.

"Yeah, you do," John faced forward again. "Been doing it for years; it usually means you're planning on doing something completely unethical."

"I was not ..." Sherlock stopped and closed his mouth.

"Thought so," John nodded, a faint smile on his face. "It's the cackling, always a dead give-away, is that."

Making a pointed mental note to delete any ability to cackle from his repertoire, Sherlock cast his thoughts back to the small revelation the computer search had kicked up before Jules phoned.

"James Devereux's son, Landry Banister, is the one that Blythe has been seeing," he said, by way of introducing the subject.

"Yes," John's forehead wrinkled. "We already know this."

"But the boy has not taken Devereux's name," Sherlock added. "One wonders why."

"Aren't he and his missus semi-estranged?" John sounded thoughtful. "If Devereux walked out on the family when the boy was a small kid, maybe the wife simply decided to put everything in her maiden name, even if there was no formal divorce. People do that, you know."

"Or it might be that there was no formal marriage in the first place," Sherlock widened his eyes and drew in a salutary breath. "People do that, too."

"What?" John was intrigued. "You're suggesting that James Devereux and Sheila Banister were never actually married? Does that mean that Landry is Devereux's son or not?"

Reaching into his coat pocket, Sherlock pulled out the screen print he'd made of the genealogical search page and handed it over. He pointed to one particular line about a third of the way down.

For a couple of seconds, John wasn't sure what the information was telling him. But then it sank in ... he met Sherlock's waiting gaze.

"But if this is correct, it means that ..."

"Indeed it does."

"Which means that ... and Mycroft already _knows_ this?"

"I can't think of any other reason why he'd go to such lengths," Sherlock sounded fatalistic.

"Oh my god," John sat back, his mind whirling. "He's known this, all this time."

"Though how he planned on using the information is unclear," it was Sherlock's turn to frown. "I'm assuming some form of dramatic _denouement_ at the critical moment; my brother is ever the drama queen."

Considering the source of that comment, John felt it was a bit rich, but said nothing. "So what are we going to do about it?"

"Do?" Sherlock shook his head. "Absolutely nothing, though we can at least be prepared now for a whole new set of potential variables, now that we know."

"Yeah," John nodded. "That's for sure," he said, his fingers feeling, of their own accord, the comforting weight of the gun in his pocket.

###

Following Cate's call, he had been faced with a choice of actions. Either he could send his people directly out to the Pulborough stables and thus prematurely reveal his hand, or he could find another way to get his daughter out of this ridiculously complicated mess. Knowing that Devereux might be in the vicinity and knowing only too well the man's temperament, it was not possible to hope that Blythe might get out of this without some misadventure. It was too much to expect, and he would not risk her safety. Thus the decision had been made. Standing and sliding into his coat, Mycroft pulled the Nokia from an inner pocket of his jacket and summoned the Jaguar.

He was her father; he would go and get her himself.

###

In the kitchen, Cate sat and pondered. There seemed to be a lot going on around here that she knew nothing about and it didn't sit terribly well. In fact, it wasn't too much of an overstatement to say that it all sat with her extremely _poorly_. It was all very well for Mycroft to play his cloak-and-dagger games, but that her daughter, her _fourteen-year old daughter_ had apparently been sucked into the middle of one of his 'situations' was not sitting well with her in the least ... she stood and paced.

Despite knowing that what was happening was not really his fault, Jules nevertheless felt increasingly queasy at the idea that his sister, his _twin_ , might be getting herself into serious trouble. If he was half as smart as he was cracked up to be, he would have told her not to be so damn silly the second she'd told him what she was planning to do. That he'd followed her instructions and phoned Uncle Sherlock and Uncle John the second his mother was on the phone to his father, didn't really help get rid of the feeling that he'd become party to a very grave mistake indeed.

Watching his mother walk backwards and forwards, clearly deep in thought, his queasiness intensified.

Still pacing, Cate felt a knot of concern coalesce in her stomach and, not that she enjoyed the sensation, but at least it told her what she really wanted to do, which was the same as she always wanted to do. She wanted to be active, to be _physically_ active in the resolution of this situation. But how? Racking her brains as to a way in which she might actually _do_ something, Cate found no easy solution, and so she paced some more.

The second he entered the kitchen, Jack new that something was very wrong. Apart from the thick silence, the expression on Jules' face and the fact that Cate seemed intent on wearing a pathway on the polished floorboards suggested there was something majorly amiss. He was still a stranger here; it wasn't his place to enquire, but these people already meant more to him than his own family.

"What is it?" he stood, waiting. "What's wrong?"

"Bly has gone off with her boyfriend to Sussex which is really problematic because the boyfriend's father is causing Daddy problems at work, so he's gone to get her back, but we all think it might not be as simple as that."

Jack considered. He knew Sussex rather well. Very well, in fact.

"Would it help if I went there too?" he asked. "I could offer some backup if your husband needed any ..."

Pausing her pacing, Cate managed a tense smile. "Thank you Jack, but of all people, Mycroft will not be short of backup if he wants it," she said. "Blythe's gone to her boyfriend's house for tea, but Landry's father is apparently causing a major problem for my husband and the whole situation has suddenly become a great deal more complicated than a little act of disobedience."

Jules watched Jack freeze, the blond man's expression paling at the mention of Blythe's boyfriend.

"You know him," Jules stood up from his chair. "You know Landry Banister?"

Cate stared between the two young men beside her. "Do you?"

Nodding slowly, Jack inhaled slowly. "Landry Banister is my half-brother," he said. "James Devereux is my stepfather; Landry and I have the same mother."

"But you said your name is Parrish?" Jules frowned.

"It is," Jack nodded again. "My mother was married to Edward Parrish, but he died overseas and then Devereux appeared on the scene and the next thing I know, he wants to adopt me and changes my name," Jack looked faintly ill. "But the man's a right bastard, especially when I told him what I wanted to do for a living, he didn't want to know. So I got out of there as soon as I could earn my own way and kept my father's name,'" the tall blond paused. "I think Landry's gone to the bad though," he said. "Last time I spoke with my mother, she said the boy was far more easily led astray than I was."

The knot in her stomach reached a solidity that could not be denied, and Cate made one of her own decisions.

"Right then," she said. "Coat on, Jack. You and I are taking a fast drive to Sussex where I will hopefully have an opportunity to meet your stepfather," her smile was a fraction too wild.

"You want to meet James Devereux?" Jack headed to the door to get his coat.

"Oh, I intend to do far more than just meet the man," Cate grabbed the keys to the Bentley.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_Marvellous Treachery – Insubordination – Nothing But the Best – Blood Pressure – Scoping the Joint – A Proper Car – John Navigates – Alternative Transport – Caught – Speed – Skulking – Not Everyone is Mycroft Holmes – Danger – Cate Sees Red – Pas-de-Deux – Several Announcements._

#

#

As their train pulled into Pulborough station without her getting a great deal more out of Landry, Blythe realised that either he really didn't know anything useful, or he was, in fact, a better liar than she'd given him credit for. What she _did_ know, however, was interesting.

James Devereux worked in the NCA and while she knew her father didn't, at least not overtly, it was no stretch of the imagination to put the two men on the same committee somewhere or even at opposite sides of the table in an argument. Knowing how her father detested people who betrayed their own, as well as individuals who assumed their level of intelligence was sufficient to avoid being caught, Blythe was able to make a calculated guess, based on Landry's own behaviour, of what his father might be like under all that suave _panache_. Maxims about fruit not falling far from the tree breezed through her thoughts and she turned to the boy beside her and smiled, knowing he would probably end up in gaol at some point in his adult years. Not only was he morally bankrupt, but he was stupid about it as well. Hoping Landry's inevitable downfall might make the papers so she would be able to read about it, she smiled some more.

Landry wondered how his father was going to handle things. The girl beside him might be more open to a little fun than he'd previously imagined; she'd always been a little bit of a goody-two shoes, but her behaviour since he'd kissed her had been intriguingly different. Maybe all she needed was a little warming-up ... and who knows where this might lead. He noticed her smile and grinned.

The station wasn't terribly busy at this time of day, though once people started arriving home for the weekend it would be quite crowded for a while. The carpark was full, but he was able to spot his father's white Range Rover. Waving, he grabbed Blythe's hand and pulled her along in his wake.

"Hi, Dad," Landry brought his guest to stand between them. "You've already met Blythe Holmes," he turned to her. "Looks like my father is here after all," he said, a little lamely.

Blythe marvelled at his treachery. What a piece of work he was.

"A pleasure to meet you again, Miss Holmes," Landry's father wore the same half-smile of the previous evening, his light grey eyes and fairish hair making Landry's parentage clear. "The house is about a fifteen-minute drive from here, if you'd care to get in the back seat ..."

Though Landry held the door for her, Blythe wasn't terribly surprised when he closed it and got into the front seat beside his father, her place in the scheme of things becoming clearer by the minute. Thoughts of taking him down were increasingly attractive and the small smile on her face was a near-permanent thing. Blythe was glad her mother wasn't here as Mummy's wrath would probable end with the keys to the Rover accidently ending up on someone's roof or down the nearest drain. Sitting back in the seat, Blythe forced her face into nonchalance and watched the Sussex countryside fly past. She hoped that Jules wasn't having too bad a time of it all; she had pretty much dumped him in it and she knew there would be a reckoning at some point.

But not before she got the information she wanted. Nobody messed with a Holmes.

###

"Not without me," Jules stood in the kitchen doorway, his lanky frame curiously tense, even his hands were curled tight.

"Sweetheart, this might become a somewhat awkward situation and one of you in the middle of it is really quite enough, don't you think?" Cate looked into her boy's eyes and saw an unusual anger and ... something else she'd not seen before.

"She's my _sister_ ," Jules growled, for a second sounding exactly like his uncle. "Bly may be the biggest pain in my arse on a regular basis, but she's _my_ _twin_ and if anyone does anything to her I'm going to ... be very cross," he finished breathlessly as he caught his mother's gaze.

Cate knew they didn't have time for this and it was perfectly clear that Jules was not about to sit down and do his homework while he waited for them to get Blythe.

"Oh, very well then," she spoke tersely. "But you stay _in_ the car unless I say otherwise, do you understand? You move one toe out of the Bentley and you'll be confined to quarters for the rest of the year, am I clear?"

"Clear as, Mum," Jules grinned madly, kissing her on the cheek as he went to grab his coat.

Turning to their trainee butler, Cate's expression was fierce. "My son is now part of your responsibility as well, Jack," she said. "If you help him to get into trouble, I shall be seriously unhappy with all sorts of things and we will be having a very earnest talk when all this is over, am I understood?"

"Yes, _Ma'am_ ," Jack nodded, his eyes alight with some emotion Cate couldn't place, but whatever it was, it wasn't remotely submissive. _Rats_. She had hoped to put the fear of god into both of them but appeared to have failed appallingly. She was even more surprised when Jack kissed her other cheek and tugged the car-keys from her hand.

"I drive really well," he grinned. "All those grouse-shoots I've been training for."

"Well, come _on_ then," Jules shouted from the front door. "Things to do, people to _upset_."

Faced with such scandalous insubordination, Cate did the only thing she could. "I'll navigate," she shouted, following her two young men at a run.

###

"We should be getting into Pulborough in thirty-seven minutes," Sherlock checked his watch as he finished his phone call and returning the device to his coat pocket.

"Are there going to be any cabs?" John looked thoughtful. If they couldn't get out to the stables, they were sunk. "From the map, it's a bit of a hike to the Banister place."

"Better than that, John," Sherlock patted his pocket. "Just booked us some transport from the local car-rental franchise. A vehicle will be waiting for us the minute we get there."

"What, a Jeep or something?"

"The very best they have, John," Sherlock drew breath and nodded. "Only the very best."

###

There had been a collision on Vauxhall Bridge; a small van and a tourist bus. Both lanes of traffic had seized and all movement was at a complete stop. Unfortunately, before his driver had realised there was a problem, the Jaguar had already been hemmed in from the rear. There was no way forward and no way to reverse. Mycroft sat in the back of the quietly purring car and felt his blood-pressure start to rise.

###

The _Banister Racing Stables and Stud_ had an elegant dark blue-and-white sign above a gateway flanked on either side with carved horse-heads and lucky horseshoes. The drive up a bit of a hill to the main house was quite a long one, with carefully white-fenced fields on either side, each containing several beautifully, sleek-looking racehorses, each one of which wore a distinctive coat to keep any chill away from their expensive and delicate hides. The various chestnut and bay animals lifting their heads curiously at the sound of the car, watching the Rover make its way up the slight incline towards the main clutch of buildings at the top. The paintwork of the fences was smooth and fresh, the edge of the drive was neatly trimmed and everywhere she looked, Blythe noticed the grass was lush and green. Someone had spent a great deal of time and money keeping this place in top condition.

Not Landry or his father, she was willing to bet. Which only left Mrs Banister, the real horse-lover in the bunch.

The afternoon sunlight was dappled by large trees as they got closer to the double-story building, a half-timbered Tudor country house, with several dark-painted outbuildings stretching away behind it. The same careful attention to quality and care seemed evident here too, and Blythe wondered what sort of person would have married someone like James Devereux.

As the Rover crunched to a halt on the thickly gravelled drive, the main front door opened to reveal a tall and slender woman in her mid-forties. Pale and blonde, her fair hair escaping from the knot at the back of her head, Sheila Banister frowned a little as she saw her husband and youngest son in the front seat of the car. She stood, tense, waiting.

Yanking open the rear door, Landry ushered his guest towards his mother. "Mum, this is Blythe Holmes," he announced slyly. "From school." As Landry reached for her hand yet again, Blythe had suddenly had enough and she stepped away.

"This is the most beautiful and well-kept place I have seen for a long time, Mrs Banister," she said, a real smile curving her lips. "Would it be possibly for me to have a look at some of the horses?"

Recognising a fellow spirit, Landry's mother relaxed and smiled back. "Of course," she said, "but shall we have tea first and then I can give you the guided tour?"

"Oh I can do that," as they walked into a lounge Landry gestured for Blythe to sit on a nearby sofa, frowning slightly when she took a single armchair and crossed her legs, resting her hands calmly in her lap. "I know all the places Blythe would like to see," he added, throwing her a wink.

"If possible, might I see around your house?" Blythe sounded hesitant. "It's such a lovely example of late Tudor architecture that I'd really, _really_ like a quick tour if I'm not being overly demanding," she smiled back so pleadingly at Mrs Banister that the woman couldn't say no.

"Come along then," she said. "A whistle-stop tour before we sit down for tea, shall we?" standing, she led the way out of the room leaving the two males behind.

This was precisely what Blythe had been after. The house was typical for its period; low-ceilinged, narrow passaged and with a fractionally uneven stone floor. And somewhere in this house, James Devereux probably had an office of some description, and she wanted a look inside.

"So how do you have the rooms allocated?" she asked. "So many of these big old houses used to have animal pens on the ground-floor, with living quarters above."

"Quite right," Sheila Banister nodded. "But we converted the old internal stables ages ago into a large kitchen-family room, as you can see," she said, pushing open a door and stepping into one of the most massive spaces Blythe could remember seeing in someone's house, when the house wasn't an actual mansion.

" _Wow_ ," she breathed, looking around. "This is _fantastic_. Look at those beams," she added, admiringly. "What other rooms do you have on this floor?"

Standing in front of one of the great bow windows, Mrs Banister pointed towards the far wall. "Got my office through there," she said. "Then there's a staff room and office for my Training Manager where we keep all the studbooks. The lounge you've seen, so apart from this kitchen and some bathrooms, that's about all down here on the ground floor, but we've got more living rooms and my husband's office upstairs."

"And are there more exposed original beams like these?" Blythe allowed her eyes to follow each blackened beam from one side of the expansive ceiling to the other.

"Oh, lord, yes," Sheila Banister grinned, wholly charmed by this young thing whom Landry seemed to like. "Entire forests of the things, come on up and see ..."

###

Jack heard himself whistle as Cate opened the built-in garage that had been replaced the side drive of the townhouse. There were automatic roller doors at both ends in case anything large was needed to be brought into or out of the rear of the house, but he'd not had any occasion to get into the garage itself yet.

As the front door rolled itself upwards, what greeted his eyes was a recent-model dark blue Bentley off-roader, with sparkling bodywork and windows that gleamed with an expensive clarity. He still had the keys in his hand but wondered now about driving such a valuable machine. If he did any damage at all, there would be no way he could ever afford to pay for it.

"No time to dawdle, Jack," Cate was already hauling herself into the front passenger seat just as Jules settled himself in the back. "Let's see some of this fabulous driving of yours, yes?"

"You trust me to drive this in London?" Jack felt the driver's seat cushion his body in a cloudlike fashion, wrapping its soft leather upholstery around him like a mother's arms. He'd had girlfriends who hadn't been this intimate. Even if he did nothing more than just sit in this vehicle, it was an experience he'd never forget.

"Turn left and left and then left again until we're back on Park Lane," Cate knew this much without looking at a map, though she was looking at the GPS anyway. "Then we need to take Brompton Road, then Fulham Road until we get to Edith Grove, at which point we head south then take a right down New Kings Road until we get to Putney Bridge, then we just head for Leatherhead," she looked up, wondering why the car was still stationery. "You are licenced?" she checked.

"Just a little nervous of scratching this lovely creature," Jack patted the dash gently as he pressed the ignition, smiling as the engine purred sweetly into life. Easing out of the garage, he vaguely heard the automatic door lower behind them, but he was already falling in love with the responsiveness of the thing. It was a dream. It was a proper car.

And he would be a proper driver for it. His face forming into an expression of some determination, Jack reminded himself of the reason behind all of this was to go and fetch Miss Blythe away from his own family's unpleasantness. He felt his jaw set in an uncompromising stiffness; he was not about to let either his brother or his stepfather do anything to upset the young Holmes child if he had any say in the matter.

"Hang on, back there," he muttered, tapping the accelerator to just this side of righteousness as he hit the road to Pulborough.

###

"This is it?" John stood with his hands on his hips. "This is the best they had?"

"I specified the newest and speediest vehicle they had on their books," Sherlock held the keys in his gloved hand as he inspected the vehicle he'd hired on the phone.

It was indeed a newish model and undoubtedly nippy ... but was, perhaps, on the _compact_ side.

"A Mini?" John turned to inspect Sherlock's legs to see if he'd had them shrunk for the drive. "You know you're going to have your knees under your chin in that thing, don't you?"

"No time to waste, John," Sherlock stepped forward, grasping key and door-handle with admirable fortitude. "I shall manage."

Succeeding in keeping his features straight as he slid into the admittedly comfortable passenger's seat, John said nothing as he watched the tall man in the big coat push his own seat all the way back and still end up with a knee-to-chest compression that would have them off the road if he coughed too hard. "Want me to drive?"

"Not necessary, thank you," Sherlock started the car up and swung it into gear. Locating both the accelerator and the clutch, he wiggled himself around until he had reasonable control over all moving parts, including his own. "You may however, navigate," he added. "GPS is in the glove compartment."

"Right then," John got down to business, flicking the device into life and plotting their course. "We head right from here, down the road away from the station, then we cross Stopham Road and head out up the A29; the Banister stables are about fifteen minutes further on from that."

"Let's see if we can't shave that down a little," Sherlock looked determined as he engaged the engine and floored the accelerator. With a solid lurch of power, the Mini jolted forward and was already out of the station carpark before John had belted himself in.

###

It had been over thirty minutes and there had still been no movement on the bridge. There were now a number of police personnel, and there had been at least one ambulance drawn as close as might be possible, given the extended tailback of vehicles on the blocked and noisy bridge. After making discreet inquiries, Mycroft's driver returned with the unhappy news that there was unlikely to be any change in the situation within the hour.

After sitting and fretting for almost forty-five minutes, this was the final straw, and Mycroft scowled blackly. "Call Central and advise I am in need of immediate alternative transport," he ordered. "Something fast and direct. I will not be held up a second time."

" _Sir_ ," his driver nodded. "Bessborough Gardens are about a hundred yards back there," he indicated over his shoulder.

"An excellent suggestion," Mycroft nodded and made to exit the Jaguar. "Make the arrangements and advise them, please, that I am in no mood to be trifled with."

"Sir," the driver was already on the phone as Mycroft eased his long frame upright and began walking at a moderate pace back the way they'd already come. With luck, his wait would be minimal.

###

Conveniently, there was a bathroom not far from the end of the house where Sheila Banister had pointed out her husband's office. It had been a spur of the moment idea for Blythe to ask if she might use the facilities, at which point Mrs Banister left her with directions to come downstairs for tea when she was ready.

Waiting until she heard the woman's footsteps fade away on the stairs, Blythe was already at the office door, which was, naturally, locked. There were three slender pieces of metal in her fingers before the same number of seconds had passed; Uncle Sherlock's lessons would not be wasted. Still not clear what she was looking for, Blythe entered the room and carefully closed the door behind her estimating she had three or four minutes before Landry came looking.

She observed a large central wooden desk covered with documents of all shapes and sizes, several of them bearing what seemed to be large red wax seals. They appeared important. There was also a modern-looking desktop computer as well as a sleek laptop; neither were switched on and Blythe realised she daren't risk doing so in the time that she had.

Moving to the rear of the desk, she quickly scanned the opened documents for any names of people or places; headings and capitals were the easiest things to see in a hurry. Was the name Holmes anywhere in sight? Not that she could see, although the word _Esgair_ seemed to be repeated an awful lot. Who or what was Esgair? Taking out her phone, Blythe clicked off a dozen photographs before her elbow nudged a piece of paper, uncovering a second document beneath it.

Except it wasn't actually a document as such, but a copy of one which, in itself, was a copy of a photographed letter. Now why would anyone keep a copy of a photographed letter? A moment later, she had taken another set of images, sending the whole lot to her father's phone. If anyone knew what these things were, he would. Bending closer, she was momentarily engrossed with the curious papers and thus failed to hear the footsteps outside the office door.

"Blythe?" the muffled voice beyond the office door was undoubtedly that of Landry Banister. Would he come looking for her in his father's office, she wondered. Probably not, as he would assume it was still locked. But there was no way she could leave the room now without being discovered and that was something she would rather not happen. She looked around for an alternative exit.

There was no other door, though there were two large windows, each overlooking the front of the house; no way she could climb down though either one of those without being noticed. And even if she could, there was no way to explain how she had suddenly managed to get outside. The only thing she could do was wait by the door and, as soon as Landry seemed to have gone, was to slip out and pop downstairs. She could always claim she got confused in her directions, not even Landry would think to question her. Leaning close to the doorframe with her ear against the gap between door and jamb, she held her breath and waited to hear Landry's footsteps to go away ... which they did.

Heaving a small sigh of relief, Blythe counted to five before opening the office door and stepping through.

Right into the arms of James Devereux.

###

It was when they headed down the A24 towards Horsham that Cate remarked this route would take them directly past Deepdene.

"You'd like Deepdene, Jack," Jules commented from the back seat. "Nice old place, tons of history and style. There's even suits of armour in the dining room."

"I'd love to see it some time," the blond man's tone was neutral but even from the back seat, Jules detected a note of resignation.

"I'm sure we can arrange something before you have to leave us," Cate checked her watch. It was already four and Blythe and the Banister boy must have arrived by now. Her face tightened at the idea that something other than an innocent afternoon tea might be taking place at the Banister stables. If anything were to happen to her daughter ... clearing her throat and trying to clear her thoughts, Cate looked pointedly at the road ahead. It was empty as far as the eye could see.

"Jack," she paused, delicately. "Hypothetically speaking, how do you feel about speeding?"

"As in breaking the speed-limit and risking possible arrest and a heavy fine?" Jack's gaze searched the horizon for other traffic.

"That would be a major part of it, yes," Cate nodded thoughtfully.

"I feel surprisingly open to new experiences at the moment," Jack smiled a little grimly as he depressed the accelerator. "I assume everyone's belted in?"

Silence greeted his question and so he touched the power a little more. The speed limit had recently been reduced here to fifty miles per hour and he was already doing seventy. The road was clear and dry; a few more horses under the bonnet wouldn't hurt.

Calculating, he realised they'd reach his mother's house in less than twenty minutes.

He touched the accelerator just a fraction more.

###

Given the lower than normal chassis of the Mini, the hedgerows and trees seemed unusually high around them as they sped down country lanes towards their objective. At times, it felt as if they were enclosed in an emerald tunnel as the over-arching branches of green-leaved trees met and interlaced over their heads. It was all rather scenic.

"So what's the plan when we get there?" John kept his eyes open for any signs suggesting they might have reached the Banister place. "Bang on the front door and demand that Blythe comes with us this instant?"

"I thought I might take the occasion to have a little look around the place while we're here, actually," Sherlock began to reduce speed. "Undoubtedly, there'll be some sort of gate or formal entryway to the property, so I suggest we take a little stroll up to the main dwelling and consider an informal _recce_ of the joint."

"While we're here, ostensibly rescuing your niece, you want to break in to Devereux's office in broad daylight and see what you can find relevant to the case?"

"Something along those lines," Sherlock smiled faintly as an ornate gateway hove into view. The wide, off-road entrance to the _Banister Racing Stables and Stud_ offered a reasonable spot for them to park the Mini and head up the long drive on foot.

"It's got to be almost half-a-mile up to the house," Sherlock made no bones about keeping them both out of sight as much as could be managed, hugging the shadows of low trees, walking as close to the fences as possible. With luck, they might make it all the way to the house unnoticed.

The old Tudor building appeared over the crest of the hill in front of them, but as they were still skirting the far side of one of the tall fences, it was the work of a second to slip into denser shrubbery framing the more open parking area in front of the house. There were already a couple of vehicles there; a banged-up old Ford and a much flashier white Range Rover.

"Guess which one belongs to Devereux," Sherlock whispered as he bent closer to the ground to stay in the cover of the bushes.

"Given the man's hubris, I doubt it's the old banger," John cast a wary glance towards the house as they managed to reach around the side of the building without being discovered. "So far, so good."

About to make some smart quip about not speaking too soon, Sherlock heaved both he and John back around the corner as a previously unnoticed side door opened right in front of them.

###

Choosing to stand in a spot just off-center in the small park known to the local office-dwellers as Bessborough Gardens, Mycroft resisted the impulse to check his Hunter for the time. He knew very well what the time was and exactly, almost to the minute, how long ago it was since he had left his office in order to reclaim his daughter from the unwanted attention of both Devereux and younger son. And once Blythe and, if possible, Sheila Banister was away from that unpleasant side of the family, he would unleash his people, allowing them to do what they did best.

Mycroft felt his jaw tighten as he thought of Blythe with Devereux and his young offspring. If she were in any way upset or ... hurt, there would be an accounting of the most fearsome variety of which, he would ensure, there were no witnesses.

The next batch of seconds ticked past in his head and he maintained his immobility by sheer force of will. His phone beeped indicating an incoming text from an unexpected origin, frowning, he opened the communication, his eyes widening fractionally. Almost immediately, he forwarded the details to a second number.

And then he heard his transport. It was unmistakably his; not everyone in this area would be expecting the arrival of the latest in British Army small helicopters to drop down in their local park to give someone a swift lift over to Sussex.

But then, not everyone was Mycroft Holmes.

###

"You little _bitch_ ," Devereux's face darkened and fell into a violent scowl, his hand already reaching out and grabbing hold of Blythe's long hair, digging his fingers in deep and pulling hard until the pain made her eyes water.

Realising there was little point retaliating just yet since the moment she put this man on the ground, Blythe knew she'd have both Landry and Mrs Banister to deal with as well, and unless she could somehow get the keys to one of the cars parked outside, there was nowhere for her to run. Accepting she might get smacked around a little, she doubted anyone was likely to go any further than that ... and if push came to shove, Uncle Sherlock had taught her things her mother hadn't. Like how to use knives for things other than carving chickens.

"The door was open and I wanted to see the view from the upstairs windows," she yelled, grabbing at the fingers curled cruelly into her hair. "I'm sorry I went somewhere you didn't want me to go but I didn't know! Let me _go!_ "

"Don't lie to me, you little tart," James Devereux yanked hard, pulling her almost off her feet. "I think you and I better have a bit of a chat about what you're _really_ doing here," he muttered between gritted teeth. "I didn't think you'd come all the way down here just for _tea_ ," he made for the stairs, his hand still gripping her hair.

Stumbling down the stairs after him, Blythe didn't need to pretend to cry; the pain from her abused scalp was enough to make her eyes water for real, though her mind was already racing through situational permutations.

Devereux probably had the keys to the Rover in his pocket. If she were able to get him outside, she was fairly confident she could at least put him on the ground, maybe even long enough to grab the keys and lock herself into the car. Both she and Jules had been driving a ratty old farm-wagon around the fields at Deepdene since they were able to reach the pedals, so driving held no mysteries for her. If she could get into the Rover, she'd not only be safe, but she'd be able to get away and call her father.

"I didn't mean to go into your office, _honestly_ ," Blythe wailed, realising the family might not be so keen to see her being so nastily treated. She managed to squeeze out a few extra tears.

"What the hell's going on, Dad?" both Landry and his mother had come to investigate all the noise, and he stopped short, horrified at what he saw. Taking advantage of Blythe's naiveté was one thing, but this looked a lot more serious than that. "What's happening?"

"James, let the child go," Sheila Banister pushed her son to one side, clutching at her husband's arm. "You can't manhandle someone just like this no matter what you think she might have done. Let the girl go, for god's sake!"

" _Shut up and get away from me you whore!_ " Devereux roared, his face distorted with fury, as his fingers clamped even more tightly around Blythe's hair. " _You don't tell me what to do in this house_ , _do you understand?_ You _never_ tell me what to do!" he was almost screaming as he headed for the main front door, dragging Blythe after him.

Though shaken by his father's intimidating outburst, Landry followed, his mother hesitant about what to do next, half-tempted to call the police. She'd been at the receiving end of his foul moods herself. One of these days, he'd go too far.

Storming out through the main kitchen area, still pulling Blythe after him, Devereux slammed though the main back door of the house, heading across a small courtyard towards the nearest stable block, too far away from the house for sound to carry. Watching his father go, Landry had a pretty clear idea of what might happen next. He couldn't possibly let his father attack Blythe, could he? Deciding that if someone was there to see what he was doing, his father might calm down a bit, Landry headed towards the side door of the house and slipped silently through, intending to get to the stables from this direction. If it seemed like his father was going to be too rough, he'd have to step in. Bringing Blythe here to get her to answer questions was one thing, physically attacking her was something else entirely and he wasn't sure he was up for that. Exiting through the side door in order to head around to the stables, he was in the process of closing it quietly, when a strange man's voice sounded in his ear.

"Don't scream and don't make a fuss, just turn around and tell us who's in the house and where they are."

His heart pounding in shock, Landry swivelled on the spot to see a shorter blond man staring at him with cold blue eyes; eyes that suggested he'd better do exactly as he was told.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he whispered, his throat dry in sudden fear. "What do you want?"

"James Devereux, Sheila Banister," another man, tall, dark-haired and in a dark coat, emerged from around the corner. "They are inside. Where?"

"My mother's inside but my father's ..." Landry hesitated, unsure of what to say next.

"Your father's where?" the tall man frowned, his tone abruptly chilled. "And where's Blythe Holmes?"

Not even thinking to query such questions, Landry almost stuttered a response. "Dad found her in his study and he's taken her to the stables. I think he's going to be doing a lot of shouting and didn't want anyone else to hear. I was on my way there to make sure he didn't ..."

Sherlock's phone rang, almost masking the faint sound of an approaching car. He made a face but pulled the device out of his jacket anyway.

"Didn't _what?_ " the ice-cold tone of the shorter blond man suddenly sounded far more frightening that the tall man did, despite the difference in stature. Landry felt his options narrowing down to one.

"My dad gets very angry sometimes and ... and _anyway_ ," the boy pointed to the end wall of a long building further around form the house. "That's the old stable block; he's taken Blythe in there."

Without another word, the blond man shoved him hard against the wall and took off towards the stables at a fast run.

###

"The turn-off's just around the corner," Jack, demon-driving ace and new-age butler, leaned forward in the Bentley's front seat to peer up the drive through the windscreen; he didn't want to bump into anyone coming down before he got to the top. There was a strange Mini parked at the side of the entrance; probably tourists. Touching the accelerator, he was pleased at the car's responsiveness to the slightest pressure. It almost flew up the gradual incline towards the Banister residence, where there were already two vehicles parked in the main courtyard.

Cate was out and striding towards the front door even before the engine had quietened. The sooner she found Blythe, the sooner they could all be gone from this place. After Jack's revelations, she had little doubt being here wouldn't be his first choice either. She banged on the front door with a closed fist. There was a wait of several seconds before it was opened by a flustered looking woman whose hand went to her mouth, as she seemed to recognise Cate even before she spoke.

" _Oh_ … are you Blythe's mother?" she asked, a faint and preoccupied expression on her face. "She is the image of you."

"And where _is_ my daughter exactly, Mrs Banister?" Cate felt in no disposition to smile back: the drive down from London had given her ample time to work up a very healthy mood, and it wasn't a good one. "She accompanied your son here against specific advice and I'm quite concerned for her."

"Blythe is actually …" Sheila Banister paused, clearly unhappy. " _Oh dear_ … I've already called the police …"

_Police?_

" _Where is Blythe?_ " Cate felt her insides compressing into anger. Something was clearly very wrong and Blythe was probably right in the middle of it, as usual. If she were in any danger …

" _Jack?_ " Sheila Banister caught sight of her eldest son standing behind Cate. "What are you doing here?"

"Where's Blythe, Mum?" the tall blond kept his voice calm though he didn't feel it.

"Your father took her out to the old stables; he says she was in his office and I think he's going to tell her off …"

Turning and grabbing Jack's lapels with both hands, Cate's face was a study in controlled wrath. "Stables?"

" _Jack!_ " the Banister woman tried to speak.

"This way," ignoring his mother, Jack took off around the far side of the house, Cate and Jules on his heels.

###

She had been shoved down to the dirty, straw-strewn floor, her head aching with pain and her eyes still blurred with ears, but this had all been expected and the situation, thus far, was still within her control. Pushing herself up to her feet, Blythe wiped her eyes hurriedly, clearing her vision.

"My father was right," she husked. "You really are a total bastard," she threw the words at the tall man standing and staring at her. "And stupid too," she added. "No wonder you're going to gaol," she hissed. "I hope Daddy lets me watch them sentence you … I can imagine you in the dock of the Old Bailey, terrified and pissing yourself in abject fear like the coward you clearly _are_ ," she was yelling now, provoking Devereux into making a move, something she could use to turn his own weight against him.

"You nasty little …" Devereux lunged forward, his hand a club to beat her down. In an instant, Blythe had grabbed his arm, ducked backwards inside his grasp and sunk a sharp elbow into the man's solar plexus. He went down to the cobbled stone floor with an agonised gasp just as Blythe tore away, heading for another door at the far end of the stables. In moments, she had unlatched the old door and was sprinting out the other side among all manner of different outbuildings and trees and overgrown greenery. She heard the banging of the door as Devereux charged out soon after her, his footsteps muted now on the grass.

" _Blythe?_ "

She heard her name being called, and knew it was Uncle John's voice. But she had no idea where Devereux was anymore and didn't want to end up having to deal with him again until she had something heavy in her hands. Maybe she could circle back towards the old stables.

" _Blythe?_ "

 _Oh god … what was her mother doing here?_ Had she and Uncle John come looking for her? Daddy was going to have an apoplectic fit.

There was a loud rustling in the shrubbery directly behind her and from the corner of her eyes, Blythe saw a clawed hand descending to grab her again. Rolling sideways and kicking upwards, she was back up on her feet before Devereux had regained his balance. Running back the way she had come, she saw John first, his expression livid as he looked first at her and then beyond, over her shoulder, but she didn't stop running, having also seen her mother.

Cate's face was pale and tight, but she relaxed a little upon seeing her daughter was essentially unharmed. "Find your brother and get in the car," she said quietly, as Devereux staggered into view.

"But _Mummy_ …" Blythe wanted to debate the issue.

" _Now!_ " Cate rarely ever shouted at her children, and only when their own safety had been at risk. Ducking her head and without another word, Blythe headed back towards the old stables where she saw Jules and Jack waiting. Jules wore a very odd expression and Jack simply put an arm around her shoulders as she leaned on him in some relief.

Devereux had stopped his wild stagger as soon as he saw John's face. Though the blond man was shorter and a little older, he was also stocky and there was that in his stance which spoke of _danger_.

"Like to beat up little girls, do we?" John's voice was gentle and almost lilting as he stalked closer. There was a feral smile on his face. "Like to make them cry, is that it?" he walked even closer to the now-stationery man. "Big man with the ladies, _eh?_ "

"Leave it, John," Cate's voice was soft and flat just behind his shoulder. "I want to have a little word with Mr Devereux in private, if you don't mind."

"Not this time, Cate," John shook his head, his eyes never leaving the man not six feet away. "He's mine."

"You can have what's left," Cate stepped forward, level with her old friend just as Devereux's temper got the better of him again and he charged forward as if to bowl them over by sheer weight and inertia.

In a balletic _pas-de-deux_ of grace and conserved energy, John's fist made substantial contact with the man's jaw at the precise moment that Cate swept Devereux's legs from beneath him. He hit the ground simultaneously horizontal and unconscious.

Tempted to do a little more damage, Cate's breath came fast as her temper raged. _How dare this man try and hurt her child!_ But wisdom stepped back in and she calmed, leaning against John's side. Time to be a sensible adult again.

That and she knew the twins were probably watching everything.

"Blythe?"

Cate and John turned simultaneously as they heard the younger Banister boy call out, just in time to see Blythe and Jules turn to face Devereux's son.

"You _shit_ , Banister," Jules bristled, a sudden fury on his face. "You brought my sister here under false pretences, you _bastard!_ "

Blythe had never heard her brother so furious, nor had she ever seen him punch anyone quite the way he swivelled and punched Landry Banister. Both her mother and Uncle John were _excellent_ teachers.

Looking down at the now-prone figures of father and son, Cate's ears caught the sound of an approaching engine, though not that of a car. Her eyes reached upwards.

A small army helicopter was approaching from the north.

#

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# **Almost the end** #

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#

"And so the documents were conclusive proof of Devereux's involvement with the blackmail and his pathetically obvious plans to take over the barony through his wife's claim," Sherlock sounded more than a little bored as he sipped his tea.

Jack handed round a plate of biscuits.

"These are rather good," the younger Holmes wrinkled his brow in approval.

"Glad you like them, fresh made this morning," the tall blond smiled and continued handing the plate around.

"But how did you know to go and get them from Devereux's office?" Cate poured more tea for herself and Mycroft.

"That was Blythe's doing, my love," Mycroft nibbled on one of Jack's special little cakes. "She had the foresight to email me the photos she'd taken of Devereux's desk, and since I knew Sherlock and John were already in the vicinity, it made perfect sense to bring my brother into the fold, as it were."

"Wait a minute," John paused, looking confused. "How on earth did you know we were anywhere near Pulborough? We had taken every precaution to make sure you knew nothing about our involvement from the very beginning."

"GPS," Mycroft smiled easily. "My brother's phone has a particularly attractive GPS signal."

"So you knew where we were all the time?" John sat back, eyebrows raised.

"Mycroft's obsessive need to know all things has only increased with his advancing years, John," Sherlock sighed. "Although in this instance, it did seem to be of some minimal use for once."

"So, if Devereux isn't the strongest candidate for the barony, then who is?" Cate was curious and she lifted her gaze to meet Jack's "Is it your mother?"

"Have you any idea how many Sheila Banisters there are in Britain?" Jack grinned. "My stepfather's claim would never have held water under full scrutiny, which is why he wanted the whole thing sorted out in secrecy."

"Yet he thought you were the real claimant?" John took another biscuit.

Jack shrugged. "Devereux is a maniac, always has been a bit weird," his face grew solemn. "The police told mum the other day that they were also looking into my real father's death In South Africa … they're starting to think it mightn't have been an accident after all."

"Oh Jack, I'm so sorry," Cate was immediately concerned.

"Water long under the bridge, really," the young man shrugged fatalistically. "But they say things happen for the best."

"And you're still positive you don't want to go off and find some grand country house and buttle your heart out?" Mycroft assessed the trainee butler with a practiced eye. He needed to be sure.

"And leave this place?" Jack grinned widely. "I've lived more here in a week than in the last six months," his grin got even wider. "And besides, if ever a family needed a butler, this one does."

"Well, that's all rather convenient, actually," Cate dunked her biscuit before munching it slowly.

Mycroft, Sherlock and John exchanged a brief glance in an unusual moment of male camaraderie.

"Care to enlighten me as to why that might be, darling?" Mycroft kept his tone light, though his slightly narrowed eyes focused entirely on his wife.

"I've followed up on your suggestion as to the university best suited to take the twins on an advanced-entry program," she nodded, absently. "And I agree completely," she turned and smiled beatifically.

"But ..?" Mycroft knew without question now that something was afoot.

"I agree entirely that my old university, right here in London, is probably going to offer them both the best opportunities for study and learning than anywhere else," she said. "Plus, being so close to home, they can continue living here with us until they're old enough to legally make their own choices about things ..."

" _But ..?_ " Mycroft raised an eyebrow. There was still more. His lips were already curving slightly into a smile. Cate so loved to be dramatic.

"But I still don't like the idea of two fourteen year-olds attending University College in Gower Street by themselves, at least not until I'm sure that they're going to be able to handle everything."

"And so?" Sherlock felt compelled to join in the conversation. "Really Mycroft, if this is the tenor of all your connubial conversations, I'm frankly amazed you made it beyond the first month," he turned back to Cate, disgruntled. "And? _So?_ "

"And so I'm accepting the university's offer to become their Writer in Residence for the next two years," she concluded, grinning madly. "That way I'll at least be in the neighbourhood if there's any problems, but not breathing down anyone's neck," she sipped her tea.

"Presupposing, of course, that either of the twins are remotely interested in such a program," Mycroft added, dryly.

There was a muffled squeal of enthusiasm as the open door to the lounge was flung wide and Blythe dragged Jules in behind her.

"When do we start?"

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**THE END**

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As always, many, many thanks to everyone who enjoyed the story so much that they felt able to leave a review.

It's very pleasing to know that so many people enjoyed reading it.

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